Who said fate doesn't knock twice?
by Ansy Pansy aka Panz
Summary: A rather different abortion storyline. Kirsten. 2002. CHAPTER 17 EPILOGUE UP!
1. Fall

Who said fate doesn't knock twice?

**Summary: **A very different abortion storyline.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anyone but seeing as Josh isn't playing with them anymore I feel I'm allowed to

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She's baaaaack!

And rather nervously (because although there may not be a quantity of OC fics on these days there is damn good quality) offering up an old story, newly written/rewritten.

I have some very strange ideas. In this case I was struck when watching Kirsten and Theresa at the end of season one with the premise that what if 'sometimes things just happen' not twenty years ago but less than two!

You know my love of all things abortion storyline; this is one of my rather different ones which I just had to get up before someone else thinks of it. It's not completely finished but I will try my best to get it done before long.

Enjoy my pretties

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October/November

Ryan came to us in early July that summer. It was a Friday, the night before the Fashion show held annually on the second weekend of July. For as long as I can remember it's been the Fashion Show, a non-black-tie event and then Cotillion on the last weekend of the month. These days it feels like Ryan has been with us forever, I doubt if Seth or even Sandy could pinpoint the date without looking it up. But I have other reasons for remembering.

My story starts long before the balmy evening that changed our lives. It could have been very different night.

Where does it start?  
With my childhood; eighteen years in Newport Beach's perfect bubble?

With Berkeley; my escape?

With Sandy; the love of my life? Our first date or the night he made me the happiest girl on earth with a plastic ring or the day I became Kirsten Cohen?

With Seth; my baby, my little boy, my angry young man?

With Ryan; our unexpected second son?

No. This story starts in the October before Ryan arrived.

It was my birthday.

Sandy had taken me to dinner at the Lighthouse and for once Seth had accompanied us with minimal compliant. I suppose I should worry more that he didn't have somewhere better to be on a Saturday night rather than dinner with his parents, but I was just relieved he wasn't out at some party drinking and doing drugs. O.C. kids party hard, everyone knows that, plus I've been there, done it myself, and I'd rather my Seth wasn't a part of that underworld. I've always liked the Lighthouse; it doesn't have the stuffy, Newpsie-packed atmosphere of the Club and Sandy and Seth were just happy to go somewhere they didn't have to wear a tie.

Seth insisted on wearing his new converses, bright red and highly inappropriate. I'm not sure why I remember that. I think we argued over them. Sandy's shirt was peppermint green. I remember wondering, even as I tugged at the material, quite how I'd explain to Rosa why it had lost most of its buttons. The dress I wore was red. (The basis for Seth's argument that he should be able to wear his red shoes) I'd fussed to Sandy as I dressed about whether it was too non-conservative for a woman approaching her forties.

'Approaching being the operative word,' he told me, 'you're only halfway there' he punctuated his words with kisses. 'Well not halfway there in total but halfway in terms of halfway between…'

'Sandy, Sandy, Sandy.' I said laughing, 'I get it.'

He grinned sheepishly. 'You look gorgeous.'

I'd blushed. As I always do when compliments me or when his kisses tickle my neck and the next morning I picked up the dress from our bedroom floor where it had been abandoned, smiling as I thought of the particular _present_ Sandy had given me that necessitated taking off the dress. One of many.

He gave me another present that night I just didn't know it.

That was mid-October and four weeks had passed before I really caught my breath. That time of year is always hectic with contractors, architects, investors and buyers all in a panic to close deals before the holiday season. I'd had the feeling that something was off but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Maybe I was just feeling old, worrying about my son, my marriage, working too hard for too little recognition…

Five weeks. I busied myself with work, constructing endless excuses to quash the niggling anxiety I felt. I shouldn't really be this tired…

Six. That weekend I crashed. Work had been exhausting the past week. Board meetings had dragged on and on, my father playing his role of slave driver extraordinaire to perfection and several irritating investors being subject to the sharp edge of my tongue. In addition I was sure I was sickening for something. Feeling sick and headachy I spent most of it in bed. Pretty much unheard of for Kirsten Cohen.

Sandy was agitated without even knowing I'd been sick both mornings; he'd been out surfing and I wasn't about to tell him. He was haranguing me to go to the doctors as it was and I didn't need some medical professional telling me I needed to cut down on stress. I thrive on stress, it's part of my job.

The following Thursday was Thanksgiving. I don't think I've ever been so glad of a long weekend; usually I hate being away from the office more than two days at a time. But I still wasn't feeling 100 (and certainly not the 110 my dad expected) although of course the official line was 'I'm fine.' 'I'm fine,' to Sandy, to Seth, to anyone who asked, which seemed to be everyone at the moment, their gaze drawn to the mauve smudges beneath my eyes. So I was tired and had the only pale complexion in the whole of California. It didn't mean anything was wrong.

I woke late, roused by the sound of laughter. I would like to say the kitchen was a 'frenzy or activity' but it was more of a shambles. Somebody had obviously just knocked over the carton of cranberries and the bright red beads were rolling haphazardly off the counter and over the floor. The sight made me dizzy but I managed to smile at my two boys and the coffee pot behind them.

'Oh hey sweetie,' Sandy greeted me sheepishly as I dusted flour from his hair. 'We though we'd let you sleep; you looked pretty tired last night.'  
I glanced at the oven clock, surprised to see the dial reading 13:37.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept that late.

'So mom, taking advantage of the whole vacation lie-in huh? You feeling okay?'

'I'm fine,' I answered, again, resisting the temptation to dust off my son's precious Jew-fro'. 'So what's going on in here?' They began to hastily explain as I picked my way through the berries to the coffee pot and began making a fresh cup.

'Seth stuffed the turkey himself,' Sandy declared proudly, sliding an arm around me and pressing a kiss to my forehead. The comfort was almost tangible.

My son nodded amidst his 'sick' gestures and noises, 'Lucky for me I haven't inherited your defective cooking gene,' he teased, springing to open the oven door so I could fully appreciate the bird that was now browning inside. The scent of half-cooked meat hit me and I felt my stomach turn over. Suddenly the coffee I was drinking tasted like charcoal.

'Looks great,' I choked out, setting down my mug with a shaky hand and heading for the door, desperately praying I wouldn't slip on a stray piece of fruit.

'Kirsten?' Sandy was asking anxiously behind me. 'Kirsten? Are you alright?'

I didn't answer because I wasn't alright. All at once the niggling feeling was a fully fledged panic. To be cliché; everything just fell into place.

There was more to this than just feeling under the weather and if that was the case I really _wasn't_ alright or okay or anything like it.

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Thoughts greatly appreciated!

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	2. Thanks

Who said fate doesn't knock twice?

**Summary: **A very different abortion storyline.

**Disclaimer: **Relinquish them Josh. RELINQUISH!

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So here I am…I didn't take that long really. And suddenly Thanksgiving weekend has ballooned and is making this fic slightly longer…as always happens! Enjoy and Happy New Year!

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Thanks

I sat on the side of the bath tub and breathed in slowly, slowly. The double pounding in my head and stomach began to ease at little. I wasn't going to be sick because this wasn't happening.

What wasn't happening?  
My mind flicked to the impossible idea I was conceiving and my stomach lurched, twisting itself back into knots and forcing me onto my knees over the toilet bowl.

That's where Sandy found me two minutes later, after hurriedly reassuring our hopelessly yet adorably neurotic son that there was in fact nothing wrong with his turkey and that was not the reason I had fled the kitchen, hand over mouth.

I stumbled to my feet, rinsing my mouth and deflecting his questions. I was fine. It was simply the smell of the meat when I wasn't well that had made me a little sick. It was probably just flu or something. Or something.

'Sure?' he asked.

'Promise,' I lied, accepting his embrace but not relaxing into it. I couldn't or the mounting anxiety I felt might spill out over my eyelids and then the fat would really be in the fire. I don't cry often, well, I don't cry in front of people very often, even Sandy. I guess people would consider that a bad thing when he's my other half but it's not as though I always shield my emotions from him; I'm not the Ice Queen my reputation makes me out to be when I'm at home. I don't hide things from him, not usually. Certain things just aren't important. Certain things might be but he's better off not knowing. It's not lying, it's not hiding if I just don't…tell him.

Sandy wasn't happy with my answer, I could tell. He always wears his heart on his sleeve. Where my eyes guard, his are open, telling a story that is much harder to find in mine, emotions flicker briefly across my face whilst his play on the expressive features I know and love so well. I saw his misgivings in his eyes, anxiety in his jaw and resignation in the way his lips set in a slight line. He wanted me to go back to bed. He wanted me to admit I was sick. But he should know by now, I never do.

I cracked the smile I knew would reassure him at least a little, I love that I know him that well. It won't relax him completely; he knows me so well too.

Back in the bedroom I hurriedly showered and dressed, occupying my mind with anything I could chance upon to try and keep the panic at bay; the latest merger, the budget for the coming year, the name of every contractor who had ever failed to show up. I failed before the shampoo was even out of my hair.

I stood under the jet and let it sink it, as much as it could right then. I don't think it had at that point; the tears that tracked secretly down my face amidst the spray were out of shock more than anything else. "Oh god,' I groaned quietly, sliding down to sit on the shower floor. I really did not like the possibility of being pregnant. Stupid, stupid birth control, stupid, stupid Kirsten if I'd managed to miss a day without noticing.

"Whatamigonnadowhatamigonnadowhatamigonnado?" I repeated in a whisper. I sounded like a sixteen year old but I didn't care. This was pretty much as bad. Okay maybe not because my father would have killed me if I got pregnant at sixteen but I was thirty five, this was just as unexpected. This was just as much of an accident. I had a teenage son and a more than fulltime job. I had a husband who I spoke to more on the phone than face to face. And I was _thirty_ _five_.

That weekend was hell. Seriously, Thanksgiving was just about ruined in my opinion because I couldn't enjoy it. I could hardly think of anything else, the thought, the fear of being pregnant, the uncertainty driving me crazy. I resolved to put it out of my mind, at least for the afternoon. There was nothing I could do right then and it was Seth's second favourite holiday, I had to at least pretend all was well.

Luckily the nausea had passed by the time it came to eat. Perhaps I had jumped to conclusions I thought desperately but I couldn't convince myself. I guess I could feel it. Somehow I knew I was right and there was no easy way out of this.

'Mom…_Mom_!' Seth's impatient voice startled me from my thoughts.

'Yeah honey?'

'I asked whether you were done with the potatoes.'

I apologised and handed them over, complimenting the turkey to allay Seth's fears and then commenting on the potatoes; anything to keep my mind occupied. 'Whose are the roasties?' I asked, 'They look great.'

Sandy grinned at me from the opposite end of the table. 'Mine.' Somehow that single word embodied a whole host of suggestions about rewards and such like. I blushed and smiled back, albeit a little awkwardly.

'Guyysssssssssss,' Seth moaned, 'please don't make me puke before I've even begun on this deliciousness!' He was eyeing his plate ravenously, as though he hadn't eaten in weeks and I'm not sure if it was out of pity or fear of the gleam in his eye that raised my eyebrow at Sandy, telling him to get on with grace.

There isn't grace as such in our house but on Thanksgiving there is the traditional ceremony with the five kernels of corn.

'We remember the suffering of the Pilgrims who had only five kernels of corn to eat some days of that first hard winter. The next year, after a plentiful harvest they began the tradition of the Thanksgiving meal, counting their blessings with five kernels of corn beside their plates. Today we give thanks for our land of plenty and count our own blessings," Sandy recited and picked up the first of his kernels. "This year I give thanks for my wife Kirsten.'

He does that every year and I responded, smiling. 'This year I give thanks for my husband Sandy.'

Seth managed to contain his penchant for eye-rolling and took his turn. 'I give thanks for the fabulous turkey we are about to eat.'

Sandy and I rolled our eyes instead and the circle returned to him.

"I give thanks for my son Seth.'

'For Seth.'

'For pumpkin pie!"

'For my family in New York.'

'For my family.'

'For Death-Cab.'

'For the surf in California.'

'For California, North and South.'

'For my parents and family,' Seth said, winking at us as though we thought he had forgotten us.

The last round of thanks is private and we all took a moment. I have no idea what Sandy gave thanks for but I'm pretty sure I saw Seth's lips form the word _Summer_; he's said that every year since we came to Newport. My heart went out to my little boy and his unrequited love.  
I didn't know what to give thanks for that year. Obviously there were so many things I could have said but in my current state of mind I just couldn't decide. I give thanks for birth control, I thought frantically, may it be effective. _Please_.

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These chapters aren't very long but I'm afraid I don't have much more of Thanksgiving weekend written and don't want to jump to the next bit yet! Please review.  
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	3. Giving

Who said fate doesn't knock twice?

**Summary: **A very different abortion storyline.

**Disclaimer: **Schwartza Claus gave them to me…But he did!

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Hey again, sorry for the delay, I was doing some rejigging…So originally this story was a lot shorter but as always, as I began to write, it grew and I didn't realise how I was writing more about the here and now and pushing the reasons for the way Kirsten is feeling further back. To begin with those would have been in the second chapter but I got carried away. They were coming in the one after this but some of your reviews made me think and I did some scene shifting. There are some here and then some more explanations and thoughts and suchlike in the chapters after…both sides of the coin being reasoned. So hopefully that will improve things, make it a bit more real and you'll eventually understand Kirsten's feelings even if not her choices. Thanks for the feedback, that particularly but also all of it. It's a great pleasure to write for you all…and so much more enjoyable than my international political economy essay!

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Giving

Dinner over we watched the game; Cowboys versus Redskins, (Cowboys won) with Seth interjecting sarcastic comments at every touchdown. To appease him we then switched to some weird Japanese movie and I pretended to fall asleep on Sandy's shoulder, partly to escape the violence onscreen. Partly.

I was stiff by the time it was over and could feel the tension inside me when I stretched. Sandy watched appreciatively as my shirt rode up and I tugged it down, pretending I hadn't seen, not in the mood for that kind of thing right then. Maybe if he wasn't like that _all _the time I wouldn't be in this position I thought. But you love it Kirsten, the other half of me argued.

Annoyed…at Sandy, at myself, at the potential child inside me, I left the boys battling pirates or something on the playstation and took a bath hoping it would help me relax.

No such luck.

Kirsten Cohen isn't good at sitting doing nothing so it was barely more than half an hour later that I was in bed feigning sleep. I heard Sandy come in and stand, I guess, looking at me because he sighed and I felt a gentle finger stroke down my cheek before he headed to the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later he padded back in, whispering silent curses at the creak of the floor and the bed.

'I'm not asleep you know,' I told him without opening my eyes and I could imagine his sheepish face.

'I know,' he lied, pulling me to his chest. He was soon asleep while I lay staring at the dark ceiling and listening to his even breathing. Eventually I couldn't lie still any longer and carefully extricated myself from his protective grasp so I could toss and turn on my side of the bed. The thoughts were whirring through my head as though powered by a fan stuck on the highest setting. Back and forth they shuttled and the more anxious I became. I was thirty five and I was pregnant. I was pregnant. Crap. This was not part of the plan. This didn't feature in any kind of daydream.

I was thirty five. I was too old for this.

I had a demanding job. I had a boss that would not take lightly to the idea of me taking time off. And I love my job, I didn't put it on hold for the family I had, why would I do it for a stranger?

I had a forty year old husband who for all he wanted a large family I'm sure had not thought of the idea in years. He'd be sixty before the baby turned twenty.

We were too old to start the whole thing again.

I had a fifteen year old son, unhappy, insecure and basically friendless. A son who was far closer to his father than to me, they were both guys and they matched in looks and personality. I was the odd one out. And what would it do if I had a baby that looked like me? How would Seth feel then? How would he feel in general? I could imagine the remonstrations about how the pregnancy had happened, the anger and hurt at the idea that somehow we were replacing him. I remembered every emotion, every shred and scrap of jealousy and irritation I'd felt with Hayley and she was only ten years younger than me, not fifteen. It was a terrible idea as far as Seth was concerned.

I had a father who would not like the idea of me being pregnant.

I had a mother-in-law who would be very vocal in her no-doubt negative judgement.

I had no desire to be pregnant again. I didn't want to go through it all again. I didn't want to bring up another child this goldfish bowl of a place. I didn't want to bring up another child period.

And I had a list of fears as long as my arm. Each one of them gnawing away throughout the night, pushing me closer and closer towards the decision I didn't want to make.

Perhaps I did sleep, it didn't feel like it, but at one point the numbers glowing on the dial of the clock began to increase in half-hour bursts rather than minute by minute. At 3.54 I was tired of glaring at the red digits and flopped back to face Sandy, startled to find him lying with his eyes open watching me. Our eyes had the predictable conversation that other people would have had out loud.

_You're not asleep._

_Neither are you._

_What's wrong?_

_Nothing._

'Kirsten.'

'Just thinking.'

'Looks like you're doing a lot of it.'

I gave a smile. If only he knew. But of course, he couldn't.

'Care to share?'

'I just…'

Lie. Lie. Lie. My conscious screamed. But I couldn't think.

'Hmm?'

Sandy's face was fast gaining an anxious edge and I tried to smile reassuringly, mysteriously, make him think it was nothing. Let him believe I was fantasising about him. Something. Anything.

I closed my eyes as his cool hand brushed a few strands of hair off my face, pausing over my forehead and giving a low exclamation.

'Sweetie, you're burning up.'

'I'm just hot,' I told him, detangling myself from the bedclothes, 'too much tossing and turning, thinking too hard.'

His eyes were worried and sceptical. 'You sure you're okay?'

I nodded, searching for his hand and squeezing it.

How on earth could I tell him otherwise? There was no way on earth I could ever tell him this. I couldn't share this. Not yet. Not till I knew for certain. And not even after then, not ever. I couldn't do this and he would never understand.

That much I already knew. I couldn't go through with this.

Other than that I was too shocked and worried to figure anything out.

I couldn't tell him yet I craved his comfort, my hand in his, his chest pressed up close to my back, his face nuzzled into my neck. I needed him and yet I was hiding the biggest secret of our marriage inside me. I felt terrible, guilty, a traitor. I closed my eyes.

'You're not well; sure you don't want some Tylenol or something?'

I shook my head.

'Water?'

'Sandy.' It came out harsher than I intended and he backed down.

'Sorry, I'll let you sleep. Love you.'

I rolled over into his chest again, no longer too hot; feeling the familiar shiver when he said those words. His hand rubbed soft circles on my back, forcing me to relax and my response was drowsy.

'Love you too.'

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And so Thanksgiving continues and tomorrow is Hanukah! What else do I have in store? You shall have to wait and see and so shall I as I haven't written it yet! Please review x

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	4. Friday

Who said fate doesn't knock twice?

**Summary: **A very different abortion storyline.

**Disclaimer: **This vision appeared right? And it said I was allowed to do this as long as I played nicely and gave them back when I was done.

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I should be writing my essay. But I'm bad. I'm afraid this sentiment may be repeated all term. Apologies! This chapter became 15 pages long…but I cut it to create two. If this keeps happening I should hopefully be entertaining you for a while!  
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Friday

I woke the next morning dreading the next three days and trying to think of a plan that would let me leave the house long enough to drive out of town and go to the drugstore. It was Thanksgiving; the doctors was closed but I could get a home test…but how to do so without arousing suspicion. Work was the obvious, easy excuse but Sandy would never stand for it. Thanksgiving is sacred and there have been enough fights about me working in the middle of the holiday. Evidently even his mother took the phone off the hook the Thursday and Friday of Thanksgiving. I'd rather not be compared negatively to his mother and that day I really didn't want to deal with the fallout. Things had been going okay lately.

Maybe I was overreacting though; I felt fine that morning. The moment I thought that I had to rush for the bathroom. Spoke too damn soon.  
Sandy was out surfing; obviously his mantra about family time for Thanksgiving didn't extend as far as his passion for the waves. Although Seth of course wouldn't surface for several hours yet so there wouldn't be any family time anyway. At least I didn't have those big blue eyes to answer to when I crept back into the bedroom and pulled on my robe, nor when I was rummaging through the kitchen cupboards certain I had some somewhere. I was proved right when I unearthed a small box of saltine crackers at the back of a cabinet. Relieved I snaffled a handful and nearly made myself sick again. Saltine crackers were the only thing I could eat in the mornings the whole of my pregnancy with Seth but as I soon remembered, they had to be eaten sparingly, nibbled on. Another of the injustices of being pregnant, not only could I only eat gross crackers, I had to look a prat whilst doing so. I was about to put on a cup of coffee to wash the damn things down when I caught myself. Thoroughly aggravated I shuffled back to bed remembering all the reasons I hated this so much the first time.

After such an inauspicious start to the morning I was in no mood to get up and the idea of the Coopers' supper didn't help. When I was a teenager the Nichols and the Coopers had thanksgiving dinner together every year. At first I loved it; Jimmy and I got to see each other, could hang out in my room without raising suspicion and we could make-out between courses when everyone moved from reception room to dining salon to lounge. Later it simply became a pain. Things were awkward between us and my father either didn't notice or simply refused to, continuing to make comments and prognoses about our future together. A future I didn't want any part of any more. The year after the disaster that was the Nichol-Cooper Sandy Cohen Thanksgiving, I refused to go home for the holiday again if the Coopers were there and so ended the tradition. When Sandy and I first moved to Berkeley Jimmy tried to recreate those days with annual invitations to join them for thanksgiving or to take it year about at our house or theirs. I refused every time, much to the relief of Sandy and Julie I'm sure and so the Coopers' 'Thanksgiving Friday' was born in which a couple of families were invited over for leftovers. I gave in to that mainly because it was the only thing Seth would unquestioningly attend and I desperately hoped it would help him find some friends. He was there to see Summer Roberts, not that she ever seemed to notice his presence. Sandy agreed because we could always pop home for a spell if he got too 'bored'. And for a few years it was okay, it was nice, a little awkward but nice. However, with it being hosted by the Coopers and Julie Cooper being, well, Julie Cooper, it didn't stay a small gathering for long. Soon it was _the_ Thanksgiving party, each one flashier than the last and the idea of it involving leftovers simply laughable. Julie Cooper serving leftovers? Not a chance in hell.

So I was doomed to be next door at seven that evening, boy was I not looking forward to it.

I was in the kitchen when Sandy came back, distracting myself from my thoughts and general unease at the long weekend with the newspaper. I get antsy away from the office. It's ridiculous I know but I get so used to being busy and useful that a quiet, empty house is more stressful than a loaded in-tray sometimes. He kissed my head as he passed, flecks of water dripping from his hair, and set the coffee machine going.

'You want?' he asked and I shook my head, glad he didn't comment.  
'Seth?'

I tilted my head to the ceiling and rolled my eyes. There was no chance of him being awake yet. Some people might misunderstand our lack of conversation, the short questions and even shorter, often non-vocal answers but it's not a bad thing. Sandy and I don't always need words to communicate. Often we're intune and it is the most wonderful thing. It's the times we actually have to talk that are more difficult. I was relieved that my current state of mind hadn't affected the bond between us and glanced at the seat next to me, silently inviting him to sit down. He did, smiling, and we perused the crossword until Seth shuffled in making faces at our proximity to each other. Sandy excused himself to shower, saying he smelt a little too much like sea.

I tried to talk to Seth, berating myself when the first thing that came out of my mouth was an admonishment; 'We do have bowls and spoons Seth.'

He silently complied, slouching against the counter to eat his Captain Crunch or whatever excessively sweetened cereal I'd given-in to buying him.

'You remember it's the Cooper's supper tonight right honey?'

'We go every year mom, it's not like I'm gonna forget,' he responded in a tired, sarcastic tone I didn't recognise.

I looked back down at the paper, disheartened and he took pity on me.   
'So are you feeling any better?'

'Yeah, thanks Seth…you doing okay?'

He grunted in response before making more of an effort. 'Well nearly Christmukah and nearly Winter Break so there is hope for me yet.'

I hesitated. 'Are…are things still bad Seth? At school?' It wasn't the easiest of subjects to bring up. Seth had reacted badly the last time we'd gotten involved with the bullying going on at Harbor.

'Mom you're not that old; you must remember that school is a particular kind of torture…'

I couldn't say I really knew. My high-school days had been pretty good but my status as Queen of Harbor was a far cry from the lonely, nerd-like existence my son led in those same halls.

'But Luke and the others…they're not giving you any trouble?'

'Not the kind that makes it hurt to tie your shoelaces, no.'

'Oh Seth…'

'Don't mom…I can deal with it okay. Just leave it alone.'

'Seth…'

'As long as Luke's pee doesn't corrode the inside of the washing machine it's all hunky-dory.'

I hoped he was kidding. 'You don't have to deal with this.' It's a conversation we've had several times before, all that changes is Seth's witty repartee.

'Then how would they have fun? God forbid they actually have to find a legitimate activity to entertain their tiny brains.'

'Dr Kim told me she would resolve this…'

'Kim squim,' Seth answered laconically. 'It's not that bad.'

This time I hoped he was telling the truth. I hate the fact my son suffered at the hands of his peers. I hate the fact he wouldn't let me act. Each time I did our relationship was damaged but I couldn't sit by let it happen. I'm not that bad a mother.

'Seriously,' he continued, seeing I was about to protest. 'Better me than someone without my finely tuned comedic skill and ability to laugh at misfortune.'

I sighed and watched him wander out the kitchen and towards the playstation. I couldn't protect the son I had…

All too soon seven o'clock rolled round and by seven thirty the party was in full swing next door. We'd left as late as possible but still there seemed an interminable length of time before I could go home and relax between those quadruple-figure thread-count sheets. There is a reason I buy fancy sheets. Sandy doesn't get it but the pleasure of going to bed is tangible when you're as tired as I felt that night. We circled and ate, we meet and greeted, we circled again. I'd had three glasses of champagne before I'd realised what I was doing. It was second nature and God I'd needed it. The waiter had appeared with a tray and I'd taken a flute as I've done countless times. I hadn't meant to. I wasn't thinking, never mind thinking straight. I didn't want this baby but I wouldn't…

Wouldn't what? I remember thinking. Wouldn't hurt it?  
That's exactly what you're going to do isn't it Kirsten?

No…  
Because getting rid of it is so humane isn't it?  
I…  
I couldn't tell my conscious no. I couldn't say I wasn't because the thought had entered my mind almost as soon as I'd conceived the idea of being pregnant. I could make this problem go away, oh so easily.  
Easy. Ha.

But I wasn't decided, not by any means. The thought was there, definitely but there was also a little daydream in the back of my head, fluttering to escape my control as I refused to think of it. Something where a baby solved problems rather than making them. Something that forced me to work less and be and real mom and that made Seth happy so he was glad to finally have a sibling. Some strange tear in the space-time continuum where that would happen and a baby brought Sandy and I together rather than tearing us apart as I feared. But I didn't let the thought fly free, afraid of the havoc it could wreak on my carefully ordered, tightly controlled life.

I held back on the champagne, much as I didn't want to, glad we could make our excuses early in lieu of the roadtrip the next day. Every year Sandy plans a mystery tour for Thanksgiving Saturday, which that year, as it coincided with the start of Hanukah, had a vaguely Jewish theme. It was not until I was sat in the Range Rover, tired from another sleepless night that I let my mind wander to the other side of the equation.

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Crap…I need to figure out a roadtrip for them to take. Oh Anna, why do you do these things to yourself? Answers on a postcard please. Alternatively, reviews would be even more gratefully appreciated.

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	5. Hanukah

Who said fate doesn't knock twice?

**Summary: **A very different abortion storyline.

**Disclaimer: **I don't care if I'm not playing nicely!

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I haven't written the next chapter yet…eeek…it may be a little delayed but hopefully not. Hope you're all having a good week. No action this chapter but hopefully the thoughts and things will interest you enough to tide you over to the next one where more things happen!

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Hanukah

If I was pregnant…if…then I wasn't just pregnant. I was having a baby. And as much as the thought of the having part scared me, perhaps even more than the last time (seeing as I knew what to expect), it was still a baby. Once it was all over I would have a baby. A tiny little bundle that I would love with a fierceness I didn't know was capable of.

_A tiny, utterly dependent, screaming, demanding, fragile little bundle. A tiny little bundle that I would love and hate in what would seem like worryingly unequal measure to my exhausted, hormone-ridden mind. _

I pushed my negativity aside. It might be different this time.

What if this baby was a girl? My own little girl. Someone like me, someone I could shop with, get excited about dressing up for Charity events, another girl to even it out against the Cohen boys.  
_Who was I kidding? I barely had time to shop for myself, functions soon lost their gloss and I loved my boys._

Daddy's girl. Seth's little sister who he would do anything to protect. A child that might look and take after me.

_A child that could be a carbon copy of her father and brother. A child with those deep, sad, chocolate-brown eyes that had to be some kind of genetic throw-back seeing as neither Sandy or I shared them. Another brunette to make me stand out; the odd one out in a picture-perfect family. _

Oh it didn't matter what she looked like, I argued back. Baby girl Cohen could be anything she liked.

_Baby boy Cohen. The voice nagged._

Baby boy. I could…deal with that. It was still a baby. A baby with big eyes and tiny feet, clasping miniature fingers and soft, soft skin.

_Big eyes filled with tears, screwed shut. Baby boy Cohen screaming, crying, tiny fingernails scratching, toothless gums vice-like and unrelenting. Another boy, the numbers swinging further out of my favour. _

Another son who I could watch grow into a handsome young man.  
A daughter I could watch grow.

It could be either. 50/50

_Another son. Another man in the house. Another disaffected youth. Another twenty years of one-guitar-and-a-whole-lot-of-complaining music._

My thoughts were getting ridiculously petty. Was it awful to want a girl just a teensy bit more?

My thoughts turned to Sandy. The boy I'd fallen for, the man I loved. The father of my son and any potential sons and daughters forever after. If I let him. It was terribly unfair I knew. It was unbelievable that I was keeping this from him. My love, my husband, my other half. But…we're so different Sandy and I. It's part of what makes us work but it's part of what keeps things...well…volatile. I don't mean we're on the brink of collapse; far from it. No little row is going to break us; we're far, far stronger than that. But we simply disagree on some things that some people might consider fundamental. We have strong foundations but arguments over big things, important things, probably take us closer to the edge than most.

It keeps things interesting. It is, perhaps, part of the spark, the tension, the connection. How our differences can connect us I can't really explain but I guess we are testament to the fact that opposites really do attract. And yes, it does make it very hard sometimes, but it's worth it and neither of us are afraid of the challenge. I love the fact he can challenge me. Right from the day we met to almost twenty years later he has challenged me and life is all the better for it. He is principled and exact, idealistic, compassionate, spontaneous… He has beliefs and values and he sticks to them. He makes judgements and holds opinions but he is not afraid to change them. He has ideas, he makes friends. He chases truth and has the biggest heart I know.

I'm…different. I'd describe myself not with words that explain abstract things like righteousness but rather nouns like meticulous, organised, careful…far less exciting, imaginative, romantic. I'm more wary, private, logical.

We're both assiduous, stubborn and we both love more than we realise.

We grew up in different states, time-zones and situations. We were on the opposite sides of the country with completely opposite families and lives. All we had in common to begin with was the fact we both attended Berkeley and loved it there. We found other similarities over time but at the start our relationship was hard to comprehend to ourselves, never mind those around us. Today there are still those who doubt it. My father for one.

But the thing that was relevant at that particular time was our family values. It's not as though we're on completely different pages when it comes to them but we don't always see eye to eye. Perhaps sometimes I do really but I allow other things to get in the way. Obviously we have different traditions, different heritages but we've never fought about those things, Seth of course creating his own with the one and only Christmukkah. Sandy and I both had absent parents to a certain extent although with different causes. My mother and his father share the same all-consuming attitude to work, she driven by need, he by greed. His father walked out on him, my mother slipped away from me into alcoholism. We were lonely and often forced to care for our younger siblings. I of course had a charmed childhood in comparison but the base line is that our parents had little time for us. My father's wedlock to his job hurt, but it has not scarred me the way the same thing has Sandy. And of course, I still _had_ a father.

Sandy's reaction to his childhood has been to be the best father Seth could possibly have. He has never missed any of our son's milestones; he's been to every parent-teacher conference and school event. Had Seth been into sport or music or theatre I know he would have been in the stands every time or on the front row each first night. He's home for dinner and insists they are family affairs as much as possible. He spends time with him, swimming when he was younger, sailing, even just gaming on the play station. My interaction with Seth has dwindled away as he's grown and I confess I don't know what to do any more. I can't find my little boy in the sullen teenager skulking about the house and I can't seem to do anything about it except cry.

I'm the one who hasn't learnt from the mistakes of my parents. I haven't reacted against the example they set. I have the fondness for Chardonnay so evident in my mother and my father's insatiable capacity to become wrapped up in my work. I have the drive that makes a very good businesswoman and a very bad mother. I always knew I could never be a Carol Brady mom but I always loved my son…despite the fact I didn't quite realise it at first.

I love Seth as much as Sandy does, I just haven't always been as good at showing it. Sandy has very strong ideas about family. I think it is because his mother still tried to keep the family together despite everything whereas mine drifted apart. Perhaps that makes me more inclined to break the bonds; to feel more individual, to find it all to easy to call and say I'm going to be late, don't wait for me. Perhaps I am simply making excuses for myself. Sandy believes in the importance of family. He believes that siblings are a good thing. He wanted a big family. He wants our family sat together at dinner, talking, together, every night. Children and family are very close to his heart. The idea of not having a child does not feature in his mindset. A child is something precious. A child is always wanted. Or it should be.

I _know_ a child is precious. I love my family. But I don't have the same scruples about not having a child. I'm not saying I have no scruples at all. I am not heartless, I am not crazy. I have as many reservations as the next person. I just believe there is always an option. There is always a choice. In Sandy's world there doesn't need to be a choice. Everything is rosy. I know that roses have thorns.

I appreciate his convictions. I love him and his beliefs. But I cannot conform to them. With his outlook I know he could never, ever conceive the idea of not bringing a child into a family which is stable, safe and secure. A well-off family, a happy family, a loving family. We have no excuses not to.

Perhaps he is right and the excuses are all mine.

Perhaps.

He would be angry if he ever knew what I was contemplating. He would feel cheated, would resent me, grieve for the life. I really don't know what would happen to us. How could I possibly take such a life? This was Sandy's child. It wasn't just mine; I had no right to make decisions alone. Why was I not jumping at the chance to have another of his children, give him the second child he always wanted? Perhaps the daughter I secretly wished for. I was afraid but why couldn't I get past that? This was our child, something Sandy and I had created; part me, part him, a part of him inside me. How could I…do anything but love it?

I don't if I can answer that fully even now. Not to the satisfaction Sandy would demand if he knew. I had reasons, I had feelings, but I'm sure they would seem so subjective to him. His lawyer's brain would tear them to shreds in seconds and my insecurities would be laid bare.  
I think perhaps what made it easier to detach myself from those kind of questions was the fact I had felt so little those first few weeks; I hadn't caught on to the idea for so long. True I was sick with increasing regularity but that was an inconvenience, nothing else. My initial reaction to the thought of being pregnant had tainted the past few days, I had suppressed the positive thoughts and therefore everything felt less real. This wasn't a potential baby inside me. I was pregnant. This was still my body; I didn't feel as though I was sharing it. The idea was an impostor, not a child. And there was fear, the kind that numbs, perhaps that had something to do with it. With Seth, yes I had been scared, terrified in fact; I was only twenty, but I remember the rush of excitement. It was tinged with shock and fear, not the other way around. I might have been twenty but I was madly in love and blissfully married. We were having a baby, I was happy. (As well as scared out of my mind.) I was still in love sixteen years later, I was still happily married but I didn't feel the same. My mind hadn't jumped straight to the baby. I wasn't happy.  
I reasoned perhaps I wasn't happy in general. It wasn't the fault of the pregnancy, but it wouldn't stick. The problem was I _was_ happy with my life despite its flaws, and I didn't want the changes a baby would bring. And there was that nagging anxiety that if I didn't feel anything now it would be so much worse later on. If I didn't feel for the tiny thing inside me, what would I do when confronted with a whole baby? I really didn't want to look into that chasm again.

My heart and head seesawed for the entire journey. For every pro there was a con, for every argument, a counter. Facts were facts and there were plenty of them, they marched against the crazy little daydream I hadn't been able to help thinking.

My age, my life, my family. Where was the need, the time, the desire for a baby?  
I was too scared. Too scared of carrying my child, having that incredible responsibility. Scared of all those clichéd things about getting fat and my husband being turned off. Too scared to relinquish my body to someone else. Scared of the sickness and the cravings. Scared of the pain. I couldn't deal with that much pain again. I wasn't as young as I had been the last time. I was exhausted then, how could I manage now?

What if I went through all that and yet felt nothing? What if it wasn't worth it? What if everyone else fell in love with her and I didn't? How much would they hate me? What if she hated me? What if she was as unhappy as Seth? As a mother how could I let that happen? Twice.

I didn't want to fail as a mother a second time.

So it just couldn't happen could it?

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Thank you for all the reviews. It's been incredible so far; such great comments and thoughts, challenging me to write better and also really stable numbers. Very glad I haven't lost you all…yet…!

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	6. Advent

Who said fate doesn't knock twice?

Summary: A very different abortion storyline.

Disclaimer: I'll return them all ready for season one so quit bugging me!

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Hey, sorry for the delay. I have too much work to fit into a term and really didn't know what was happening in this chapter until I began writing! It also involved a bit of research! I'm not sure I'm exactly happy with it but see what you think!

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Advent

We hadn't had to set off early for the roadtrip so were spared Seth's moaning en route and he was in a refreshingly good mood when we arrived at our destination. I was relieved not to have to deal with a crotchety teenager when I felt decidedly that way myself.

'Long Beach?' he asked in surprise as Sandy parked up in a town just along the coast. 'Really going into the wild huh dad?' he teased and we laughed, knowing full well that the days of hiking in the National Parks, although fondly remembered, had caused much grumbling from our unathletic son.

'You'll see,' was his father's reply as he took my hand. We head off towards the centre and I tried not to react awkwardly as Sandy's warm hand encased my cool one. I couldn't figure out the right pressure, get our interlinked fingers comfortable and my palm felt damp. I felt silly. I hadn't been this self-conscious and analysed every movement since the first time he took my hand, on the way to the coffee shop. And even then, in the midst of my surprise and nervousness, I found how well our hands fit together. We'd drifted over the past few years, I knew that, but our love had not. Yes it had changed, grown, but it was still there. We couldn't have drifted so far we didn't fit together anymore. It was just my current situation. The fact there was this chasm between us. A chasm of my own making of which Sandy was unaware. Because I was keeping it from him. Protecting him? I don't think that excuse fit really.

'Honey?'

I felt a tug on my arm and realised I'd continued walking in my reverie when the rest of my family had stopped. Both pairs of eyes were on me, anxious blue and brown making me feel terrible. There we were meant to be having a family day out and I was miles away. I smiled quickly, masking the emotions that were no doubt swimming in my eyes, if Sandy's close scrutiny was anything to go by.

'Are we here?'

Sandy nodded and Seth gestured at the banner overhead.

'Can you believe Dad found a Jewish market in California, in _Orange County_! I thought we were the only ones!'

He looked genuinely excited and Sandy chuckled. 'Took some research I tell you.'

I'd known of the Long Beach Christmas markets but had had no idea that they also included stalls for Hanukah. For that weekend and the next there would be all kinds of Jewish games, items, foods and activities alongside the usual Christmas crafts.

'Very impressive,' I told him as we neared the mass of stalls and tents in Long Beach's central plaza.

'I thought we could all have a little education in Judaism seeing as it is Hanukah. But there's all the Christmas stuff in case our little gentile gets bored.'

He was teasing but it accentuated the feelings of being the odd one out that I'd been struggling with. I wanted to point out that Seth was only partly Jewish, that he was officially gentile because I hadn't converted. But being part Jew is important to Seth and it would probably hurt him more than Sandy. And it's not as though I had a proper faith I wanted to share with my son. I shouldn't have been jealous of the father-son bonding. But I was.

'I'm sure it'll be fun for all of us,' I said more confidently than I felt, already dreading the boys bursting into Jewish songs, the tunes and words of which I didn't know.

'You okay?' Sandy asked quietly as we followed Seth into the market and I nodded. It wasn't a lie. I hadn't even felt sick that morning.

We wandered slowly around the little streets made by the stalls admiring the various handicrafts and product but I was distracted by my thoughts once again. I couldn't help imagining the scene with another child; a baby and having to navigate a pram amidst the crowds on a higgledy-piggledy path. Dealing with a small child tugging on your arm, getting tired and sticky, wanting to be carried, perhaps getting lost. The thoughts scared me for a variety of reasons and I tried to focus on what was around me, not the images in my head. At the stall the boys had paused at there were a few tables of boxes of old books and I began to flick through happily, only to discover most of them were in Hebrew. To top it off Seth and Sandy had begun coming out with random words of the language, vainly trying to remember scraps of the Torah and passages from their Bar Mitzvahs. They looked happy, joking around, but I couldn't help feeling a little awkward. Thankfully I discovered a part of the market filled with antiques, hand-made jewellery and art. Some shop owners had spread their wares out to join the market and I found tables of paintings and sculptures amidst the Advent merchandise. It reminded me of a certain area of Sorselido with all its little shops, studios and galleries. The little streets would be crowded with boxes and easels, paintings tied to shutters and propped up against walls, strange sculptures sat haphazardly on the cobbles, handicrafts hanging from doorframes. It was a long time since I had smelt paint and canvas, since I'd thought about the street and the dreams I'd had for a little gallery on it. Such a long time. I wasn't the same person any more and I felt like an impostor as I admired and enjoyed the art on display. I'd given it all up. I'd done it for the right reasons; for my family, but I had the feeling I'd given up too much. After my mother died and my father got back on his feet I hadn't gone back to my life. I found new ambitions instead. I wondered how the rebellious eighteen year-old with a love of art and a place at Berkeley had ended up doing everything her father wanted, being at his beck and call with barely a question twenty-four seven. I wondered what she'd think of me.

I perused the arty section while Seth and Sandy played a game with a massive foam dreidel, ate the chocolate coins they were supposed to be gambling with and began, as predicted, a surprisingly tuneful attempt at 'Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel'. Luckily the coins ran out midway through 'I Have A Little Dreidel' and we moved on. In the more educational section there were big displays about Hanukah and other Jewish festivals, and, what Sandy was most excited about; a place where you could make your own Hanukah candles. We joined the one o'clock session which began with a demonstration and then we attempted the process ourselves. I had the easy job as I offered to make only two candles for the menorah whilst Seth and Sandy made three each. This meant I could spend a little longer getting them right and making them pretty. Or perhaps it was just my meticulous nature which made them turn out okay and meant my table, clothes and hair weren't covered in wax by the time I'd finished! It was good fun; I missed being creative. I was so used to pouring over other people's sketches and technical drawings, to number-crunching and negotiating that I'd forgotten what it was like to make something yourself. It felt good.

There were several high tables set out in lines beneath an awning. At intervals there were small sinks attached to hoses and primus stoves so each candle-maker had a workstation. First we chose and oiled eight identical moulds which would make candles the right size for our menorah. Then we selected wax and the uniformity ended. Seth chose bright, bold colours, attempting to swirl together different coloured wax in the hope of ending up with marbled candles. Sandy went for extremes of simplicity and difficulty creating a pure white candle and two rainbow ones with circles of colours like one of those traffic light lollypops. As always, I had to make things a little difficult and experimented with perfuming my wicks and adding dried flowers to the melted wax to make a rose candle and a lavender one. To make the candles a pot of water was heated on the stove and the wax was melted in a can within this. I added half a white and half a pale yellow crayon to colour the wax to a soft cream colour before separating it and adding rose petals to half and lavender to the other. My wicks I dabbed with scented oils before encasing in wax and hanging up to dry straight. Once the candle wax was fully melted and mixed we poured it into the cardboard tubes and carefully inserted the wicks. They were then labeled _Cohen_ and we left them to cool while we checked out the food hall section of the market. Seth loves anything that hasn't been cooked by me and Sandy excitedly reminisced about treats he hadn't had for years whereas the scent of all the fried food made me a little nauseous. They wandered around sampling everything and piling paper plates with every kind of fritter and latke, sweet or sour, cheeses, brisket, blintzes, loukoumades and sufganiyot. (In other words fritters, potato pancakes, pancakes, yeast-dough honey puffs and doughnuts.) I trailed behind them, shaking my head at even the smallest doughball or pretzel, frightened my stomach would revolt and I'd ruin the day. We sat at a picnic bench and I half listened to Sandy holding forth about the superiority of his mother's brisket as I people watched and tried to figure out how many other gentiles were here. Once the boys had licked the last of the oil and sugar from their fingers we moseyed about the Christmas section, Seth earnestly discussing how the areas could be better combined to create the perfect 'Christmukkah' market. Sometimes I wonder where he came from. His imagination is definitely something special. I'm a very lucky mother.   
We then went to collect our menorah candles which, although they were not fully set yet, were hardened enough to be packaged up so we could take them home. Seth wanted to carry them but he has an awful tendency to swing bags without any thought for the contents so Sandy claimed it whilst I distracted my son with the prospect of ice-cream, which he agreed to despite having declared himself 'stuffed' half an hour earlier. Sometimes teenagers aren't that different to little kids. Sometimes husbands aren't either, Sandy deciding to have one too! I didn't, still not feeling quite up to any food and I couldn't exactly dig out the saltine crackers I'd brought. The boys happy, we walked towards the beach and down onto the sand. Long Beach is a proper port so the sands are nothing like as long and golden as those at home but it was a while since I'd been to the beach so I didn't really notice. Sandy did however, even saying something that sounded like he maybe even quite liked Newport. We walked along the beach until it began to get dark and Seth mumbled about it being past dinner time. 'You can't be hungry,' I said to him. 'An hour ago you were full.' 'It was nearly two hours,' he corrected, 'and I'm a growing boy.' Sandy smiled and gestured to the pier up ahead, 'No doubt we'll find somewhere along there.'  
And so we found ourselves in a diner on the pier. It wasn't full of the teenagers I expected but a random mix of people; an old couple, a group of twenty-somethings, a young family; the parents trying, and failing, to feed a squawking toddler. The scene tired me out from just watching. I couldn't really imagine Sandy and I doing that again.   
'You must be hungry,' he said and I nodded even though I wasn't, just to prevent worry or suspicion, or both. The boys both had burgers whilst I stole Sandy's chips and made up for missing out on ice-cream earlier by ordering a sundae. They laughed at my appetite for sweet things as I devoured it but I was the only one thinking about cravings. Great way not to arouse suspicion Kirsten.

I fell asleep on the way home. It was a relief to escape the circling crows in my head if only for a little while and I wished for once that we'd gone further afield this year. Long Beach was only a forty minute drive, taking about an hour in the Thanksgiving traffic, and the respite was short lived. Tomorrow I had to make up my mind. Hanukah had already begun, tomorrow it would be December; Christmas and the New Year would come all too fast. It was eight weeks. I had to decide. I had to tell Sandy. Or not. I had to choose between keeping a baby or the biggest, most deceitful and most devastating secret.  
It shouldn't be a choice; I shouldn't keep anything from my husband, never mind this. His own child. But this wasn't just about Sandy was it? This was about me. My life, my child, my body. My fears, my insecurities, my nightmare. And yes, perhaps my selfishness also. I was too busy. Too set in my life and my work. There was a big job on that had to be done by Christmas and the New Year and the spring were always hectic. I was run down as it was. I was too busy. Too busy to think about having a baby, never mind actually raising a child. Too busy to take the time off work for my family.  
_Too busy to even schedule an…_The little voice in my head added.  
_Too busy to even talk to your husband._

I thought of the things I'd kept from him over the years. There wasn't much. The odd glass of merlot I'd rounded down, some things about Jimmy, the way I felt about Newport and the sacrifices he'd made; those thoughts too complicated to express in the way I wanted him to hear them.

There was nothing huge. Nothing so potentially catastrophic.

I really didn't know what to do. Did I tell him and risk everything? He would never understand. Never. He would be so angry. He'd convince me otherwise and I didn't want to be convinced. I had so many doubts.

But how could I live with myself doing it, keeping it a secret? What about afterwards. What if I couldn't bear it? What if I slipped? What if I told?  
What if he found out?

No. How could he? No one knew.

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Sorry for the delay but this is now over 2500 words so perhaps it is worth it. Please leave me a review if you think so!

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	7. December

Who said fate doesn't knock twice?

**Summary: **A very different abortion storyline.

**Disclaimer: **I hate library fines. I owe money. Owe…Ow…own…I don't own anything.

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So it's crunch time…read on Macduff! Oh and please review. My reviews have dropped and it's making me sad. I know some of you are disappointed with the way the fic is going with her negativity and not telling Sandy but I'm afraid that's how it fits into the OC as we know it. All in all this fic really does what it says on the tin (well…summary) lol! Thank you to all who have reviewed, I really enjoying hearing what you think ;-)

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December

I thought about it when I got home, I really did. I thought about sitting down, bursting into tears and telling him. But I couldn't do it. Not the last part anyway. I went to bed instead and decided. Alone.

I made the call the minute I left the house on Monday morning and for once I was glad my name was Kirsten _Nichol_ Cohen because it meant that by 4.30 that afternoon I was sat in the doctor's waiting room. I needed to know for sure before I could really decide anything.

'Kirsten Cohen, room four.'

The doctor was female and older than me, two things I was thankful for. I thought they might make it just a little easier, she might understand my reasons better.

She was very cheerful and smiled broadly as I came in. 'Hello Mrs Cohen, don't often see you in here.'

I managed a weak smile in return as I sat on the proffered chair.

'So what seems to be the matter?'

I couldn't move or speak or think.

'Mrs Cohen?'

'Please, call me Kirsten,' I said, stalling.

'Kirsten it is. I'm Dr Marshall…Margaret Marshall.' She extended her hand and I shook it with a shake my father would not have been proud of.

'You seem nervous, tense, Kirsten,' she observed. 'What can I do to help?'

I took a deep breath. And another.

I chased the words round my mouth with my tongue but couldn't quite form them.

I opened my mouth and closed it.

Dr Marshall was very patient, waiting calmly until I finally dropped my eyes to my lap where I was agitatedly twisting my rings and spoke in a voice that didn't sound like mine.

'I…think I'm pregnant.'

'Have you taken a home test?'

I shook my head, 'It was Thanksgiving and I didn't have the chance to go out of town to buy one…I couldn't in Newport. You know…'

I gave a tight-lipped smile as she nodded understandingly and became business-like. 'What was the date of your last period?'

That was another thing about being pregnant. All the personal questions. I know it's necessary and natural and whatever but it has always got to me. I don't want to discuss that kind of thing with anyone.

'Uh…about ten weeks ago.' I was embarrassed. I should have figured something was up earlier.

'Right,' she said nodding. Well in that case I may be able to try an ultrasound or simply the normal blood test.'

'Blood test's fine,' I said quickly. There was no way I wanted to see it, hear its heartbeat. I couldn't exactly pretend it wasn't real then could I?

'Okay,' she agreed and questioned whether I would prefer to lie down. I did. I never used to have a problem with needles as a child but when I was pregnant with Seth there were some pretty big needles around, not to mention when he was born, and all of a sudden I couldn't stand them. I knew it was psychological but I couldn't help it and I really didn't want to pass out in the doctor's office. Of course, despite my fears, it was over in seconds and Dr Marshall labelled the phial as I rolled down the sleeve of my blouse.

'How long will they take?' I asked, dreading the response. I seriously couldn't live in limbo much longer.

'It depends on the backlog of tests but since we have a lab on site…could be under an hour…three or four is average, could be twenty-four.'

I sighed and she noticed.

'I'll check with the lab,' she told me, picking up the phone and ascertaining that if she took it down straight away they were about to begin a batch of tests which would be finished in an hour. 'I'm here until six, how about you…go get a coffee, browse the bookstore or something and come back then?'

I nodded; grateful I didn't have to wait until the next morning.

'Try not to worry Kirsten,' she said.

Oh yeah. Like that was gonna happen.

…

I was back at ten to six to find there was a slight delay. Dr Marshall had no more patients and invited me into her office again. She tried her hardest to keep me talking and distracted but I struggled for words, my throat tight.

'How long have you been married?' she asked with a nod to the rings I was clutching.

'Almost eighteen years.'

'Children?'

'One. Seth. He's in 9th grade.'

'So another baby would be rather…'

'Unexpected? Yes.'

'You can say 'unplanned' Kirsten, even 'unwanted'. It's not a crime.'

I must have looked surprised at her candidness because she gave me a motherly smile. 'I've been doing this a long time honey, and I can tell what you want the outcome to be the moment you walk in that door. It's okay; I'm not here to judge.'

'It's just…' I began, biting my lip. 'I don't think I can cope if I am. I can't do it. I love Seth but I've never felt a good enough mother. I'm _not_ a good enough mother. I love him, I do, but I hated being pregnant, labour was hell and it took months for me to bond with him…'

'Difficult birth?'  
I nodded. '33 hours. Breech. C-section.'

'Trouble breast-feeding? Post-natal depression?'

I nodded again, wondering why she was asking when it was all on my file.

'That kind of thing often manifests itself into anxiety over motherhood and being pregnant again,' she told me. 'Did you try for any more children?'

'Not…really. Sandy and Seth wanted to for a long time, but…things…happened. And now it's too late. I know what it's like to have a baby sibling and I hated it. I can't do that to Seth. I won't. I just can't alienate the son whom I'm not close enough to as it is.'

'That's understandable.'

'But you see it's not simply anxiety. It's me. I can't hide behind that excuse by itself. And I also can't pretend it's only because of my son. I'm selfish. I don't want another baby. I don't want to go through it all over again. I'm thirty five, I love my job, my life. I don't want to take time off work,' I admitted in a rush, adding, 'and my dad would go berserk. I've just been promoted to head of the residential division…' I sounded so cold, like my career was my life. No. I loved my boys but it didn't mean I couldn't love my job. Nothing wrong with that. 'I'm happy; I can't leave it right now. I don't want the baby to have to have a fully time nanny. I don't want to go to pre-natal classes, toddler groups and school events with mothers ten years younger than me. I'm just selfish.' I was rambling. I was rambling to a complete stranger, I couldn't really believe it. Maybe it was something in her quiet manner, her leading questions or the way she listened. Or perhaps it was simply the fact that I was on my fifth day without coffee, potentially pregnant and bottling up a ton of emotions inside me.

The phone rang and I froze as she answered it, the nausea flooding back and my heartbeat pounding in my ears. Dr Marshall thanked the caller and placed the phone back onto the cradle, hesitating as she turned to me. All of a sudden I was struck with the thought that perhaps it was something else. Something worse. I had been so preoccupied with the idea of being pregnant perhaps to stop myself facing up to the idea that I could be really sick. Denial is a very effective coping mechanism after all.

'The test results came back positive, Kirsten,' Dr Marshall said gently. 'You're pregnant.'

I grit my teeth against the rising tears and nausea, part relieved, part horrified that I was right.'

'Okay….' I took a deep and swallowed. 'Okay…um…'

'You don't have to decide right now...'

'Yes, yes I do,' I shot back, my tone a little panicked. 'I can't live like this. I can't… I know what I need to do.'

'Need to or want to?'

'Both. I can't go through with this pregnancy, I'm sorry.'

'Don't apologise there's no need,' she said matter of factly and I felt like squirming. 'Are you sure you don't want to discuss this with someone before you make your final decision?'

'Who?' I asked. Surely she must have realised when I'd inadvertently poured our my fears and feelings ten minutes earlier that I obviously had no one else to turn to.

'Your husband perhaps?'

'No. I can't.'

'Now this might be none of my business but surely you can talk to him; you've been married all this time and it obviously means a lot to you by the way you keep holding those rings.'

'Nervous habit,' I joked lamely. 'I love Sandy but this…this wouldn't do us any good. He'd never agree, never even consider not keeping the baby. He always wanted more children…' I paused and debated admitting something else Sandy could never know. 'I said 'things' happened, mainly they didn't, or I didn't really…let them. And then my mother got sick and Sandy stopped pushing it.'

'Well, is there anyone else?'

'My mom died of cancer nine years ago, my dad is also my boss, I haven't seen my sister in three years, my closest friend is the guy I dated in high school and my other 'friends' are all Newpsies. There isn't anyone. But I don't need anyone. This is about me and I'm fine making decisions by myself.'

Dr Marshall still looked a little sceptical, 'You know, there are counsellors here at the clinic; I could book you an appointment.'

The concern that had comforted me before was now irritating and I fought the urge to snap at her.

'No, please. No counsellors, there's no way I could talk to another stranger. Seriously, I'm fine. I just need to get this over with.'

She sighed but listened to my pleading tone. 'Ok. I won't make you do anything you don't want to do Kirsten but I need to be sure you understand what you're undertaking. You don't just snap your fingers and make something like this disappear. There will be emotional as well as physical consequences.'

'I understand,' I said, knowing I would say anything to get her off my back. I couldn't think about it or I might have gone crazy, might have begun questioning myself and that couldn't happen. I might have been relieved that I wasn't seriously ill but it wasn't any reason to change my mind. Being pregnant wasn't life-threatening in the usual sense of the word but it threatened the life I had, the life I wanted.

'I'll make some calls,' Dr Marshall said kindly. 'I'm guessing you'd prefer not to go to the HOAG…'

I tuned out what she was saying, simply nodding every so often. When I left I had an appointment for Wednesday at a hospital in L.A.

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Will she go through with it? Check back in about 5-7 days to find out!

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	8. Christmukkah

Who said fate doesn't knock twice?

**Summary: **A very different abortion storyline.

**Disclaimer: **Like Josh even cares after what he did to them.

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I am sooo sorry about the delay. Things have got crazy. Am shattered. But I love you all and look at how much longer the chapters are getting, nearly 3000 instead of about 1000!  
There's one thing I have realised I haven't made clear…it will be made clear in the end (I hadn't completely finished working it out when I began posting) but I thought I should let you know a bit now. I'm writing this from an end of Season 1 perspective (hint. Kirsten thinking after a certain lunch…) not a post Season 4. Therefore I am not writing Kirsten after she has had another baby years later, or this fic would be quite different I think. Similarly, the title doesn't have anything to do with Sophie…

Kudos to those who were thinking this anyway 

Thank you for all the reviews and Megan…sorry…but re your idea, I do have a fic you might like…I might work on it next!

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Christmukkah

The next two days flit between inching and flying. I was on auto-pilot, mechanically taking coffee from Sandy in the morning, kissing my son despite his reproaches, working, picking up take-out, eating, going to bed. Sandy was busy. He didn't seem to notice my trance. We loved each other but we weren't as close as we used to be and I was hiding it as well as I could.

I was reminded that it was December when I entered the waiting room. There were cards and paper chains, tinsel along the edge of the reception desk and a sorry-looking faux tree in the corner. December…Christmas time; I was meant to be at home with my family celebrating the season, wrapping gifts, decorating, but I wasn't. I was sat in a hospital. There was nothing to distinguish the waiting room; I could have been sat waiting for laser eye surgery or something. But I didn't have a problem with my eyesight. I had one with my uterus. I had a problem with my own child, how awful was that? So I pretended to myself that this 'problem' wasn't a foetus. I was simply having unwanted cells removed from my body. Like having a mole removed. Just like a mole.

Needing something to occupy myself I slid a manila folder out of my briefcase and attempted lose myself in some graphs and blueprints. I probably looked like a crazy career woman, unable to stop working for even a minute. I imagined the nurses judging me, seeing an uptight businesswoman so absorbed in herself and her job that she didn't have time for anyone else, not even her own baby. I convinced myself they all thought I was having this abortion without a second thought; scheduling it like any other meeting and hoping I could make it to my two o'clock.

I had so many thoughts, second, third, fourth thoughts. But they couldn't change my mind; I didn't want to change things. Not the way a baby would. Another child was not an answer to the problems with my family, those between Sandy and I. Those were things we had to work on, I had to work on. A baby just meant complications, less time for what we should be concentrating on, a stress on anything that was fragile already.  
I swallowed and looked back at the blueprints. Why were doctors always behind schedule?

I had to sit there too long.

The forms were too long.

Writing my name took too long in the scrawl that was unrecognisable from my usual poised, confident handwriting. Pens glide across the page when I write _Kirsten Cohen_. Today the nib scratched and stabbed its way across the dotted line.

The nurse took too long showing me the room.

The only thing that was mercifully short was the questioning. Dr Marshall had sent a message to the relevant doctor and I was glad I didn't have to justify myself again, explain my mental state regarding the pregnancy again. The idea of talking filled me with fear. What words could I possibly say?

I nodded mutely to everything and handed back the clipboard.

The anaesthetist took too long, fiddling with the needle and probably leaving a bruise. No doubt I'd have swelling somewhere hard to explain. Not that it would be seen; I wasn't supposed to have sex for two weeks afterwards. I was more worried about keeping Sandy at bay that long. He was already antsy after a dry Thanksgiving weekend, something unheard of as we love to celebrate the holidays. Seriously, it couldn't have happened at a worse time with the holiday season upon us, particularly Hanukkah, you know; eight days of 'presents'. At least the one day of many presents was still three weeks away…but I couldn't possibly stave him off until then. We're not the once-a-week type couple, we're not your average seventeen-year marriage couple, and we're not bored after nearly two decades together. And now I had to figure out some way of lying low. On top of that I was nervous at the idea of intimacy, the thought of repeating what had brought me here, the fear it could somehow happen again. Stupid, stupid contraception.

The anaesthetic took too long to work. The gel cold but otherwise seemingly ineffective and the needle hurt. Better get used to it I reasoned, it was only going to get worse.

It didn't really feel like an operation. There were no screens, only the back of my eyelids as I pretended it wasn't happening, focusing on not letting the prickling behind my eyes become tears. There was no hospital gown, just a request to remove my underwear. I felt ridiculous, lying in half my work suit, legs in stirrups. I knew I'd never wear it again. There was no general anaesthetic, just local. As much as I wished I could sleep for the entire thing I didn't have the time to spare; I needed to be able to walk out of the hospital in an hour, be back home in good time so as not to arouse suspicion from Sandy, Seth, my dad.

It didn't hurt. Not physically. I guess the anaesthetic did latently kick in, despite my lack of faith in the anaesthetist. It was…uncomfortable. Awkward. Unreal. It wasn't pain I felt, just…weirdness. There was the abstract feeling of something and nothing. Movement where there shouldn't be and the noise of the machine. Numbness, cramp and a single contraction that brought me the closest to breaking my resolve. It was too close to reality.

It took too long. Although in reality it was over in less than ten minutes. I was given another ten minutes rest time before the nurse showed me to another waiting area. About an hour and a half after I'd walked into the building I was back in the parking lot wondering what the hell I'd done.

I cried the entire way home, lucky that the roads weren't busy.

'Kirsten?' I could hear Sandy calling. 'Kiiiiiiirsten?'

I sighed and raised my voice over the noise of the spray. 'I'm in the shower.' I'd taken refuge there the minute I got home. Relieved to find an empty house despite the fact the silence was probably worse for me than some kind of distraction would have been. But I couldn't look my son or my husband in the eyes right then. And not just because they were still filled with tears. The water was somehow still hot as I stood there for minute upon minute, totally unaware of anything but the feelings inside me and the thoughts inside my head. I washed slowly, feeling sore, my abdomen a little swollen and tender, washing away the smell, the feel of the hospital. Trying to wash away what had happened, what I'd done. Wash away the guilt.

A minute later I saw Sandy's outline on the other side of the steamy glass.

'I called the office this morning,' he said, working his tie loose and unbuttoning his cuffs. 'They said you were at a meeting, in L.A.'

The edge to his voice was as clear as if he'd said 'why didn't you tell me?'

'Sorry, it must have slipped my mind.' Hah. The lie was ludicrous.

'Was it okay? You hate going to L.A.'

'Correction, _you_ hate me going to L.A.'

Sandy gave his sheepish smile. 'I just worry about you. L.A. isn't Newport and the traffic's manic.'

'Well I survived.'

'I would have driven you if I'd known; today's court date was cancelled last week.'

The shower gel I was holding slipped from my hands and clattered noisily to the floor. I felt my breath caught in my chest.

'You okay?' Sandy asked again, opening the shower door and causing me to jump again.

'Yes, yes,' I snapped. 'You don't have to worry about me.'

'I can't help it when you don't have your cell on all day. You never turn that thing off, what happened?'

'Battery died,' I answered, turning my head into the spray to hide my lie.

Sandy didn't respond.

'You know you're letting a draught in,' I said pointedly.

'Sorry,' he mumbled, not looking apologetic, rather his eyes have slipped from my face. 'How about I join you?'

That's the last thing I wanted right then.

'Actually I was just getting out,' I answered quickly, forcing him to step away as I opened the door further and grabbed a fluffy white towel, wrapping it tightly around me.

'Aw honey, I was enjoying the view.'

I gave him a withering look and he sloped off, confused, hurt. Guilty I pressed the towel against my face, against the rising tears. Damn, I'd only just washed away the tearstains, smoothed away the puffiness and redness that would give me away.

He was in the family room when I walked in, slouched in front of the tv; the adult version of a teenage sulk. I offered him coffee and he shook his head, gesturing with the remote to the steaming mug beside him. The pot wasn't empty and I poured my own cup feeling guilty at the pleasure I took from the smell and first sip. I hovered by the kitchen island as Sandy flicked irritably through the zillion channels.

'What are you doing lurking over there?' he asked and I cringed at his tone. Why did he get to be mad?

I could have smiled and taken it as an invitation, sat down next to him and make things alright but I couldn't. Not when I felt the way I did and not when his body language was so uninviting. So instead I shrugged and left the room. Great. Really mature Kirsten. Just the way to fix things, bridge the gaping chasm between us. I knew it was there but I wondered how it ended up like that, when we started slipping away. Sometimes we seem perfect and I revel in this love, this fairytale I never dared imagine back in Berkeley. Other times I know how he hates it here, how different we are at heart. I think perhaps he knew more than I gave him credit for. Not completely, obviously, but he knew something was up. He's intuitive and intelligent but I'm not the most approachable person when something is wrong and I think he was biding his time, looking for clues and finding the best way to make things right. I guess he waited just a little too long that time.

Sandy tolerated the tension between us for a few days but was frustrated by my lack of interest in anything, the lack of conversation and laughter, the lack of activity in the bedroom. Hanukah was over, Christmas was upon us and I was in no mood to celebrate. Even Seth seemed muted in his excitement about the 'uber-holiday', maybe because Hanukah was so early this year and didn't coincide with winter break or Christmas. I planned to take only four days leave over Christmas proper and Sandy wasn't happy. I felt bad for Seth but I could escape at the office. Escape the husband I'd left out of the loop and lied to. Escape my son who had desperately wanted and needed the sibling I refused to give him when he was young out of fear and selfishness. At work I could bury myself in plans and figures and blueprints; there was little space in my head for melancholy. Sandy was taking time off to hang out with Seth and couldn't understand why I couldn't also. It's an argument we have every year just not often so bitter and decisive. He's a better father than I could ever be a mother.

Sandy did the lunchtime pop-in, something he hadn't done in a while and it flustered me. I knew he wasn't there just to have lunch and it wasn't as though we were about to do _that_, so it had to be to talk. And I really didn't want to do that, so immediately I was on the back foot.

'Hey,' he said from the door, making me jump. I wished I'd been on the phone so as to delay the inevitable and felt instantaneously guilty. That wasn't Kirsten Cohen. Kirsten hated any distraction that kept her from Sandy, always had. He was the only thing she'd ever skipped classes for in college. Him and maybe a few hellish hangovers.

'Hey,' I answered, shuffling papers as he came over and pressed a kiss to my cheek.

'Got time for lunch?'

'Um…'

'Great,' he cut me off and put a carrier down on the low table, unpacking coffee and sandwiches as though he had no agenda at all. Now he might be an excellent lawyer, but he can't get round his wife. I knew what was coming. Oh yes.

He settled on the couch and tapped his fingers impatiently against the leather. 'Coffee's getting cold.'

'I just have to…' I trail off; it didn't matter what excuse I made it was always just going to annoy him. His jaw was already set in that stubborn way.

'I think you just have to sit down here, eat some lunch and tell me what's on your mind.'

'On my mind?' I play dumb. 'Just a lot of figures and whiney investors at the moment really.'

Sandy shot me a look which I returned, eye for eye, stare for stare.

'I didn't mean like that.'

'Huh?'

'You've been…distracted lately. Not really yourself.'

'What does that even mean?'

'We're not playing semantics here Kirsten,' he snapped. He always did have the shorter fuse, just not usually with me. When it came to other guys hitting on me, yes. Just me, no.

'Like I have the time to.'

'Don't pretend you're so busy just because you took Thanksgiving off, you needed to, you were sick.'

'I…'

'Don't give me that bullshit about you only getting ill when you stop and relax…'

'Sandy! What is up with you?'

'Me? You're the one who isn't talking to me.'

'Well what exactly is it about this situation that you think is conducive to us having an actual conversation?'

'Uh…I'm here, I brought food…'

'Not hungry.'

'You gotta eat.'

'You can't just waltz in here and start demanding I talk to you like you're Dr Phil or something.'

'You're getting defensive.'

'I am not!'

'You are.'

'_Sandy_!'

'_Kirsten_!'

There was a pause.

'What exactly are we fighting about?' I asked tiredly, running a hand through my hair. I hadn't been sleeping so good the last couple of days and felt too drained to argue.

Sandy looked exasperated and made a matching noise.

'Stop pretending you don't know because you do. This is about you and I am only trying to help.'

'I never asked you to.'

'You don't have to. That's the point. I love you and I know there's something going on…'

'There's nothing going on.'

He made the noise again.

'What?'

'Nothing.'

'Why are you so mad at me?'

'Why are you hiding everything from me? Hell, why are you hiding from me period? You were out the house before I was back from surfing every morning last week, you made it home for dinner once, you go to bed early…'

'I have long days…'

'You're avoiding me. Is there something going on with us that I've just missed? Have I suddenly become repulsive? Because a week ago I didn't hear you complaining when I got a little closer at night…'

'_Sandy_!' I hissed. 'Keep your voice down!'

'Like there's anyone around to hear; most people actually take lunch breaks.'

'Funny.'

'Just tell me what's up.'

'Nothing…'

He paused looking deflated and tired. 'I wonder who you talk to sometimes,' he said sadly. 'You're never on the phone to anyone…you can't exactly confide in the Newpsies. Who have you got except me? Your dad? Jimmy! If you don't talk to me what do you do?'

My mind flicked to our well stocked cellar and I didn't answer. I'm a private person. I've never been one for confiding in people, even Sandy sometimes.

I shrugged. 'I'm fine.'

'Why do we play this charade?' He asked absently. 'Eighteen years and sometimes you're still as guarded as that day in the quad.'

'After eighteen years you should know me.'

'And yet sometimes it feels like I don't. Sometimes I feel I don't know you any better than I did the first time you were lying in my arms on a mattress in the back of the mailtruck, warm and sleepy and tearful as you told me things.'

I blushed a little and didn't want to break his reverie but it's always harder to keep up my façade when he brings up the past, our love story. 'That's ridiculous, of course you know me better now.'

'Maybe,' was his noncommittal answer and it's my turn to be exasperated.

'Sandy…I'm fine. Just sometimes...there are certain times….for women…you know.'

He didn't believe me. That much was obvious but at least he refrained from rolling his eyes. He knows I hate it when he mocks female problems.

I glanced down at my papers and he stood up, picking up lunch and placing half on my desk. 'You obviously have a lot of work to do,' he said scathingly. 'I won't disturb you any longer.' And with that he strode out.

'Marge,' he said to my secretary as he left. 'Don't ever get married.'

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Thanks so much for all the reviews once again. To those who hadn't reviewed till the last chapter; great to hear from you at last! And those who always do; you are amazing. Hope this was worth waiting for. 'Fraid we're getting into the realm of the story where not much is written…problem is, once we're out of that phase it's nearly over! Please review.

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	9. Yuletide

Who said fate doesn't knock twice?

**Summary: **A very different abortion storyline.

**Disclaimer: **I own a blue mini called Kiki, not the character herself.

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I am so sorry about the delay, there are only three weeks of term left and things are getting seriously crazy. Really not sure when I'll get the next chapter up I'm afraid but enjoy this one for now.

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Yuletide

Sandy left and I followed his example not five minutes later. Marge didn't comment as my heels made a rapid staccato beat past her desk. Even they sounded angry. No doubt she'd heard it all anyway and explanation was unnecessary, not that I felt like giving one. I didn't give a toss if my father came looking. I didn't care about anything except getting out of the office where Sandy's harsh words and bitter rejection were still reeling around the tastefully stonewashed walls. We used to fight in college. A lot. Drunken, screaming fights that always ended up one of two ways; one of us walking out or with the best kind of sex. We'd grown up since then, stopped the big arguments when Seth came along. We didn't want him to witness proper rows. I'm not saying we didn't argue, that there weren't feuds and silences, just we didn't yell at each other in front of him, and tried not to when he was in earshot, that's no way to bring up a child. Plus it's no way to have a relationship. Looked like we'd become a little slack in that respect.

I got into my car, flinging my handbag and briefcase haphazardly onto the passenger seat and fighting to get the keys into the ignition. My hands were shaking. We'd had worse fights and yet here I was on the edge of losing it. Maybe it was the fact things were so unstable right now. I felt insecure. We were fighting because I was hiding from him. I didn't have his support, the safety-net of his love beneath the angry words, his arms when I gave up on the argument, pretending I didn't know what it was about. I'd cut myself off from that and he couldn't comfort me because he didn't have a clue what the hell was wrong.

As with anywhere in Newport, you're never more than about ten minutes from the beach and soon enough I was parked up on a stretch of deserted headland. I dropped my head to the steering wheel and cried. Again. I didn't think it would be this hard. That I'd cry about something I'd had free choice over, that I hadn't wanted anyway. I excused myself with the thought of how messed up my hormones had to be at that moment. Contraception, failed contraception, being pregnant, not being pregnant, contraception again… It sure felt like they were confused; Kirsten Cohen wasn't a crier until 4th December 2002. I flipped open my phone to check the time and stared, bleary-eyed at the picture of Sandy on the screen. He was laughing, sat at the kitchen table opening his post or something else quite mundane. I'd just snapped it when I'd first got the phone and wanted to test the camera. It was a few months old and I scanned his face, looking for signs of stress; were there cracks in our marriage even then? I looked at it until his face blurred into pixels and snapped the phone shut to stop me pressing speed-dial one.

Sandy.

He'd come. I knew that for sure. We could have the worst fight in the world and he would always come. He could be in New York, San Francisco, court recess and he'd always come, even if he only had five minutes. I could call him as a drunk and tearful nineteen year-old and he'd come in the middle of the night. I could call him as a red-eyed, guilty thirty-six year old and he'd find me on this deserted headland with the GPS no questions asked.

But I didn't call him and he didn't come. He missed dinner. And his wife, who had perhaps been feeling sorry for her behaviour the last week went right back to being angry because quite frankly Sandy Cohen was a hypocrite.

'I called Seth and told him I'd be late,' he excused, several hours later when he appeared at our bedroom door. 'He didn't tell you?'

I shook my head, not looking up from the book I was pretending to read and reaching for the glass of wine beside me.

Sandy raised an eyebrow as I sipped nonchalantly, daring him to question me drinking wine alone in bed at eight-thirty at night. He didn't know this wasn't last night's leftovers.

'Seth seems quiet…' he began, walking to the closet and hanging up his jacket.

'Mmm.'

'Seems like it's catching.'

'I'm reading Sandy.'

'I see that. What is it?'

I didn't answer and he came over to the bed to sit and take off his shoes. 'Is it good.'

I dropped the volume exasperatedly on my knees. 'Are we really going to do this?'

'What?'

'Make polite, fake conversation like a pair of Newpsieweds?'

'You know, you're quite the wit sometimes.'

I turned my head an inch and gave him a 'look'.

'What?' he complained. 'It's not like you want to do any actual talking.'

There was a hint of bitterness in his tone but I knew that was only because it hurts him that I won't open up to him. He has been trying for nearly twenty years. Tears pricking behind my eyes and I looked back down at my book, trying and failing to focus on the close-set type.

'Honey?' I heard him ask as he began tugging off his tie.

'I'm fine,' I said, grabbing for the wine and swallowing hurriedly. 'You can't waltz in here and start being sarcastic. Not after today.' I gave a cough, half hiccough, half stifled sob.

'I…'

'I don't want to hear it,' I cut him off, taking another gulp. 'I had an awful day and you just had to make it worse didn't you? Then you don't even make it home for dinner, after the fuss you made. Hypocrite. So don't think you're about to start with me again.' My words weren't as clear as I would have liked and I knew he noticed.

'We just need to talk.'

'You just need to sh-shut up s-so I can enjoy my wine and novel in p-peasss.'

'Don't you think you've maybe had enough?' His tone was careful, the sort you use when dealing with a frightened horse or angry dog. It patronised me and I couldn't stand it.

'Fuck off.'

He recoiled at that. I don't swear often. Even back in college he was rarely subject to that side of my tongue despite knowing I swore quite unblinkingly most of the time.

'Kirsten…'

My answer was two perfect circles of damp appearing on page sixty-seven.

Before I'd even noticed him moving, he was on the bed beside me. I flinched away, startled and angry, spilling wine in an arc across myself, the book and the silk bed sheets. I probably had had too much.

'Fuck.' I said again. Enjoying the sound of the word, the thrill of the taboo, the way Sandy stiffened beside me when his perfect, straight-laced Kirsten swore. Very little I did shocked him any more. I could think of one thing that would. The one thing he couldn't know. The one thing I had been trying to block out with glass after glass of whatever the hell it was I'd grabbed from the cellar.

He reached out to touch me but I scrambled out of bed, flapping the stained book and hurriedly pulling at the covers hoping they wouldn't suffer the same fate. I really liked those sheets. Sandy looked confused and I remember snapping at him to get up as I frantically stripped the bed in a kind of drunken hysterical haze. Bundling the sheets into my arms I stumbled round to his side and promptly tripped over his shoes. Already a little heady I wasn't in a state to right myself or even break my fall. I landed awkwardly and didn't bother to get up. This was stupid. Really stupid.

And so I began to cry again.

Sandy was, of course, beside me in seconds, lifting me up and into his arms before sitting on the bed. I still had the sheets clutched to my chest and my tears joined the wine stains as he rocked gently. His deep voice rumbled in his chest as he hushed me, one hand stroking through my hair. The tears passed quickly, sobering me up a little and I began to ramble about the sheets. Sandy didn't care about the sheets, not when I was crying, and told me so. I appreciated the sentiment but continued to fuss, pulling at my nightshirt which was damp and sticking to me. It was none other than his Berkeley sweatshirt and I knew that would sway him.

'It's my favourite,' I whined. 'I don't want it ruined.'

Sandy smiled slightly, probably at my tipsy attempt to flutter my eyelashes and tugged at the hem. I lifted my arms up, childlike, and he pulled it off. I heard him breathe out unevenly when he realised I had nothing on underneath. It was reassuring to know that I still had that effect on him, even when I was in a state. Although loath to leave, he agreed to go put everything on a cool wash and lay me naked on the unmade bed. I curled up in the foetal position, cradling my wrist, which, I had only just noticed, was hurting after I'd fallen on it. He was back three minutes later complete with a glass of water and an ice-pack. I wondered how he knew.

Suddenly drained from the tears and emotion and sleepy from the wine, I let poor Sandy manoeuvre me into fresh pyjamas. I watched as he made up the bed again and tucked me in before finally being able to strip off his own clothes and crawl in beside me. All he'd wanted to do since he arrived but I'd thwarted by being unable to control my emotions and alcohol intake. He deserved better but I didn't know how to do that when I was struggling to look after myself. And no, I didn't want any help, thank you very much.

Things transpired however, to mean that to a certain extent, I had to accept it. The upshot of that evening was that I sprained my wrist. Badly. I had to wear a sling. I was not happy, not only was I in pain, it was uncomfortable, unstylish, ungainly, annoying and meant I couldn't do everyday tasks. It would be my right wrist I buggered wouldn't it. Of course I could attempt things one-handed but it is a lot harder than you except. Goodbye independence. Hello having to be helped with everything from dressing to putting in my earrings, making coffee to taking a shower (not that Sandy minded that one). I had to type one handed. I couldn't drive. All in all it sucked. I don't like depending on anyone. I know I'm dependent on Sandy in some senses but I don't like it to be for things as simple as using a corkscrew. Not that he was letting me use one after that night. He said it was because of the pain meds. I knew that was mostly true but it didn't exactly help things. I tried to be patient but it's just so frustrating when someone has to do everything for you and your husband, who is ever so skilled when it comes to taking your bra_off_, just can't seem to fasten it. Of course, Sandy had me at home the first forty-eight hours; resting, icing my wrist every few hours and making me sleep with it elevated on pillows. I'm not saying I wasn't grateful. It just gets a little difficult thinking up new inventive reasons as to why he should listen to the doctor and that taking me to the emergency room is unnecessary. Sometimes I wonder how he got so good at first-aid. Sometimes it's better not to wonder. It's not that he keeps his past from me as such; I just know he thinks I'm better off not knowing some of it. I don't keep things from him in general, there are just some things he's better off not knowing.

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Thanks for waiting. Please leave me a review. x

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	10. Christmas

Who said fate doesn't knock twice

Who said fate doesn't knock twice?

**Summary: **A very different abortion storyline.

**Disclaimer: **The negotiations are still in progress…so for now, no, I don't own the O.C. Blah!

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Once again thanks for waiting. Had a very stressful end of term and the hols aren't shaping up to be much the amount of work I have! However this is a pleasure to write and receive reviews for. I'm a bit worried about this chapter and the next…I've had to write them from scratch and with the ending already finished the pressure was on. I hope they're okay and you continue reading. On a happier note I'm rather inspired for my next fic!

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Christmas

Sandy hadn't brought up everything since that night, obviously thinking about the consequences of our latest fight and frightened of me turning to alcohol. I lulled him into a false sense of security, staying away from the vino and giving him what he wanted, if you know what I mean. It was easier than I expected and didn't hurt thankfully. I was on a new prescription of contraception, hopefully more effective than the last.

Things were quiet. Term had ended and Seth was home all day but the most noise he ever mad was cranking the stereo up past seven on the dial so the wailing and complaining was almost audible from the kitchen. He seemed happier now it was the holidays and I felt awful about what that meant. I resolved to give him a good Christmukkah, listening attentively to his not-so-subtle hints about potential gifts and agreeing to his ever increasing demands relating to decorations. I knew it wasn't enough, wasn't the right thing to do. But showering him with gifts was my go-to move. He didn't want the affection I'd smothered him with as a child and I couldn't give him friends or siblings of his own age. Sandy had promised playstation tournaments, visits to comic book stores in LA and sailing trips in the two weeks he was taking off. Seth didn't want to do any of those things with me. I'd be lucky to get him to come choose the tree next weekend. We might do some decorating together but he was easily bored and I knew I wasn't the best company lately. Plus, since my arm was in a sling I couldn't be climbing ladders or moving boxes and my son ran a mile at any sign of manual labour.

My wrist no longer hurt but it was still a pain. It made work more stressful than ever and the weekend spent decorating the house for Christmukkah was a welcome respite, despite the opportunity for thinking that simply hanging baubles gave me. The carols playing on the stereo and constant supply of mulled wine (that didn't really count as alcohol did it?) may have helped there. I managed to busy myself so successfully the next few days that I was shocked to realise, the weekend before Christmas, that I hadn't bought presents! Obviously, the Hanukkah gifts had been separate and thankfully I'd bought them early, but the day of many presents wouldn't live up to its name if I didn't act fast. I had a few stored away along with lists made throughout the year; I was nothing if not usually organised, but that was all. It panicked me a little, thinking how in previous years there would have been a cupboard of carefully chosen, beautifully wrapped presents long before now. Saturday I slipped into the office, frantically seeking internet outlets with 'guaranteed for Christmas' mailing options. Several electronic gadgety things were easily dispatched for the boys along with the traditional whiskey for my dad. Presents for colleagues and the Coopers were found at South Coast Plaza that afternoon but I still hadn't decided on anything much for Sandy and Seth's list remained long and confusing. That evening I convinced Sandy that a trip to LA was imperative. Seth easily agreed as it meant the Cohen boys could check out several comic book and anime stores and put certain items on hold so I wouldn't make mistakes later.

Sandy was all sorted on the gift front and ridiculously smug about it. I knew he'd chosen some replacement ropes for the Summer Breeze and several CDs, under Seth's strict guidance, for our son, so his grin had to mean he was pleased with his presents for me. That just put more pressure on. The normal things were easy enough; a few shirts from a tailor I knew he loved but would never buy from himself, insisting it was overpriced, more of his favourite aftershave, a voucher for the bagel store near his office. But the more special gift eluded me. Seth had mentioned getting something surf-related so that kind of thing was out. His golfing habits I had already exploited for his birthday gift. I picked up several quality sketch books for my artistic son and a set of beautiful pencils which I secretly knew I'd keep for myself despite not having the time to draw anything anymore. My father had very quickly weaned me off doodling in meetings. I had settled on an old-fashioned type shaving set, complete with wooden-handled, silver-bladed razors and a badger bristle brush and was about to brave the comic book stores when a jewellery boutique caught my eye. Shifting the bags up my good arm, I cursed my sprained wrist once again as the numerous handles dug in. Glancing in the window I just knew Sandy would have to have another present. Something else silver. I was in and out in five minutes, a black leather box safe in my handbag.

Thankfully the two stores where Seth had picked out certain comics, dvds and games weren't far and the boys met me outside a half-hour later. Relieved of my bags and thankful everything was gift-wrapped as they began peering inside, I sighed in relief and let them steer me towards a burger bar. I hadn't thought about _things_ all day, I realised, quickly focussing on the menu. Maybe Christmukkah was just what I needed.

--

Sandy picked me up from work on December the 23rd. It had been quiet all afternoon; most people having already started their holiday or left earlier on. He came up to my office simply to stop me trying to bring work home. I was allowed my briefcase, but he refused point blank to carry, or let me carry, anything else.

'Christmas is family time,' he told me firmly in a tone I'm more used to hearing from my own mouth.

'I know,' I said, 'that's why we have to go to my dad's party tonight.'

Predictably, Sandy groaned.

'It'll be fun,' I told him brightly, looking forward to getting lost in a crowd to hide the glass of champagne or chardonnay in my hand.

'It's not like your dad even wanted to invite me,' he began his complaint.

'But if you're not there he'll start making pointed comments…'

He couldn't care less about what my father thinks or says but he knew it would get to me. Ever the martyr to the cause, less than two hours later both he and Seth were in their suits and back in the Rover. Our son was scowling and my husband looked as though he was headed for the gallows but at least they were coming. Seth's frown melted the minute he saw Summer Roberts in the gaggle of guests in my father's backyard. I knew he'd have a satisfactory, if somewhat melancholy, evening lurking about pretending he wasn't watching her and trying to stage a meeting. Sandy was a little harder to appease. I knew he wouldn't be happy until he was back home, out of his suit and being 'rewarded' for his attendance. My father came over to greet us, well, me, and Sandy immediately put on his game face. I would have too except I hadn't taken it off in days, weeks even.

'Merry Christmas Kiki,' he bellowed. 'Everything finished up at the office?'

I wondered absently when we'd last had a conversation that wasn't about work. 'Yes dad. Merry Christmas.'

'Good, good,' was the response as he moved to welcome the guests behind us. A group of Newpsies immediately flocked towards me and Sandy hurriedly excused himself.

Game face, game face I reminded myself as I felt him squeeze my hand and disappear behind a potted plant, heading in the direction of the bar.

'Kiki!' Newport's finest descended on me, squawking with the latest gossip. I took a proffered champagne glass and downed it before picking up another from a passing tray.

'Needed that,' I said, winking at their surprised faces and they all laughed. 'Now, what's this about Diane Khan having _more_ implants?'

Oh yes. I can Newpsie-it-up with the best of them when I try.

And so the evening wore on with more gossip, more vacuous conversations, more handshakes with various investors. More champagne, more wine, more concoctions that Taryn or Julie or someone _insisted_ I try, probably waiting for me to fall over or something. Too bad the joke was on them; Kirsten Cohen can hold her liquor. One by one the Newpsies began to drift away; for water, to sit down, to the bathroom, or steered away, propped-up by their husbands/lovers (who can tell these days?). The evening drew to a close and there were only a few of us still by the pool. I knew I was a little drunk but something was keeping me reasonably clear-headed. Something. Huh.

I knew what it was. In the back of my mind I still knew perfectly well what I'd done and was trying to drink away. It kept me that little bit sober, which probably wasn't a bad thing, what with Sandy and the Newpsies watching. Sandy, thankfully, hadn't been watching tonight. My most recent cocktail glass was safely empty and on the table when he reappeared. I saw him coming towards me, bowtie undone and hair ruffled where he'd no doubt run his hands through it in frustration. He looked hot. Seth was trailing three steps behind him and their eyes told me they wanted to leave several hours ago.

'Well ladies,' I purred, standing up carefully. 'It's been a pleasure but I'm afraid I can't possibly discuss table linens with you any longer, not when my husband's just over there looking like _that_.'

I knew they'd been looking too and, being rather tipsy, I took delight in it. I smiled impishly and headed towards him, using edges of the Italian paving to keep me in a straight line.

'Hey stranger,' I murmured, reaching up to brush his hair out of his face. I knew the alcohol was spurring me on but it was the only way Sandy was gonna get laid at the moment. It was just too difficult to not think about _things_ when I lying on my back sober.

'Tell me we're going home?'

'We better be.' It was a command, even in those honeyed, seductive tones and Sandy perked up immediately, weaving his head so my lips lost his earlobe and met his lips.

'Ugh do you have to?' Seth complained and stomped off towards the car.

I prolonged the kiss for the benefit of the women watching and, with a little wave at their guilty, jealous faces, we were on our way home.

--

I woke the next morning regretting my game with the Newpsies. I might have won but the hangover that ensues from Newpsie-baiting makes me unsure it's worth it sometimes. Plus, most of them don't even realise they're playing.  
My head was sore, my wrist was sore and those weren't the only things. Sandy knew he was gonna get lucky last night but perhaps not _that_ lucky. I always get a little bit…well, he calls it wild, when I've one too many of more than one alcohol. I figured that must have let him in on the fact I had been drinking but either he was ignoring it or hadn't twigged. I was still in bed when he came back from surfing and seemed to think I must be ill, not hungover.

'You not feeling well?' he asked, sitting beside me and giving me a salty kiss.

'Mmph.'

'What's up?'

'Head…throat…wrist…'

He left for a minute, returning with pills and a glass of water.

'Thanks,' I croaked out as he lay down beside me, hugging me so my head was tucked under his chin.

'My poor baby, you seem to be doing badly getting sick at vacation time.'

I thought back to Thanksgiving. I wasn't ill that time either. Sandy had been sweet and caring and I'd pushed him away. It made me feel even worse. Here he was looking after me again when I wasn't even ill. I was hungover because I'd got drunk trying to pretend I hadn't aborted his baby. The reason I was 'sick' the last time. Fucking irony. Or whatever.  
I stopped the thought, refocusing on Sandy who was still talking.

'So it just proves my theory doesn't it?'

'Huh?'

'You work too hard and the minute you stop for vacation everything catches up with you and you get ill.'

'I don't know,' I said, shutting my eyes.

'I'm gonna leave you to sleep some more.'

I couldn't decide if I was relieved or disappointed.

--

By the evening I was feeling a lot better, telling myself I was having a glass of mulled wine because it was tradition and to stop Sandy being suspicious. Not just because I wanted one and I'd figured I may as well drink myself through the end of the hangover which seemed to be pushing all the thoughts I'd postponed with alcohol back into my head at record speed.

It is tradition that we all open a present at midnight. Something we began to do simply to save ourselves from Seth's hyperactivity and continued because well, he still probably wouldn't get any sleep. We gathered in the living room as usual, with just the tree lights on and watched the first of Sandy's selection of Christmukkah movies. Then we sat and chatted, had another glass of mulled wine, another of the store-bought mince pies that just aren't as good as my mother's and waited for the witching hour. Seth's watched beeped loudly, cutting off his ramble and he grinned. 'Merry Christmukkah guys.'

'Merry Christmukkah,' Sandy and I said in unison and Seth fetched the three chosen gifts. Seth had squeezed this present a lot in the last few days, the rest of his gifts being solid and harder to guess at, so the paper was looking a little worn. He ripped it off unceremoniously and shook out a t-shirt I'd seen him laugh at in the mall one day. It read 'Too Hot To Handel' with a picture of the musical maestro beneath. Both boys chuckled and I was a very happy woman for that moment. Sandy, meanwhile, opened the case containing the special shaving kit and immediately began to rave over it, impatient for his stubble to grow back so he could try it out. I was thrilled he liked it having worried he'd want to stick with his modern razor, considering the gift overly expensive and antiquated. My gift was in a bag I recognised as being from a select jewellery boutique and came in a fat leather box. Inside was a slim gold watch, beautiful, elegant and just my taste. I smiled at Sandy. 'It's perfect. Thank you.'

'Read the note,' he prompted and I picked up the slip of paper that had fallen out.

'_All I want for Christmas is more time with you_'

Some people might have seen it as a dig at my working habits but I knew it was Sandy being sweet…and telling me how he felt.

Seth head up to bed soon after that and Sandy and I slid from the sofa to the floor. It's probably my favourite moment of Christmas, sitting there in the semi-darkness with Sandy. We've done it every year we've been together for Christmas, even when we hadn't quite defined our relationship, haven't been exactly sure what we're celebrating, haven't had a tree. The lights and the candles from the menorah, which we light on Christmas Eve even if it isn't Hanukkah, give such an atmosphere and that night it felt even more poignant as I half-lay, half-sat on the floor in Sandy's arms. We lay there just talking, kissing, then in silence just enjoying each other's company. I'd felt a little tense earlier but the mulled wine had relaxed me and I felt like I was acting pretty normal. I didn't realise I was lost in thought until Sandy began to trace my face with his fingers.

'What you thinking?' he asked softly.

I shook my head, 'Nothing.' But I guess shadows must have been sculling across my face as he'd watched me because he didn't look convinced.

'Are you sure everything's okay?'

'Uhu.'

'Your eyes look sad,' he murmured and I swallowed. 'I feel like we've been so far apart these last few weeks.'

I felt the tears prickling.

'I miss you. I know you're busy with work but if there's anything else…if there's ever anything else…or if it's just that, you can tell me. You can always tell me… It's okay. I love you.'

'Sandy…' My voice was so small in the quiet of the house.

'You've just seemed…distant, unhappy, nervous around me… I'm sorry if it's nothing and I'm overreacting I just don't want you to be unhappy.'

This was my cue. I could tell him, free myself from this strangling secret, share the burden, relieve my guilt.

But it wasn't that simple. The words choked in my throat because I knew I _could_ tell him but it wouldn't be okay. He wouldn't stop loving me but it would hurt him. And ruin Christmukkah. Everything was so nice right now. I felt warm and sleepy and _loved_. I didn't want to change that.

'It's okay, we're okay, I'm okay,' I told him, lifting a hand to stroke his face. 'I love you.'

'I love you too,' he told me again. I made out the words through my drowsiness and smiled as I fell asleep.

--

Christmases were slightly more relaxed now Seth was a teenager. I'm not saying he doesn't get excited because, boy, he does. But at least he's up at eight rather than four. We were woken by a mix CD of Seth's favourite carols and Christmas tunes which he was obvious playing in the living room to rouse us. It's one of his rules that we aren't allowed to shower or dress before presents and breakfast so we simply had our robes to slip on. I was up first. I've never liked lounging in bed but those days, when everything rushed to greet me as I emerged from the cocoon of sleep, ready to ruin my day before it had even begun, I was especially anxious to get up and get busy. Sandy kissed me as I tied my robe and I smiled. I felt better once I was vertical.

'Merry Christmas-Christmukkah my love.'

'Merry Christmas-Christmukkah.'

'We better get in there…'

'We better or he'll start gnawing the cushions or something.'

Sandy chuckled.

'I thought you said I wasn't funny!'

'Well…' he teased as we headed towards an impatient Seth.

'MERRY CHRISTMUKKAH!' he screeched, hugging us both fiercely. At least he still knows how to be affectionate, even if it was only because there is a mound of presents under the tree.

'Stockings,' he instructed.

'Coffee,' Sandy insisted, heading to the kitchen.

'Daaad!'

'Your father's getting on,' I told him, loud enough for Sandy to hear. 'He'll get grouchy without his caffeine.'

'Oh my god Dad,' Seth hollered. 'Mom just made a joke.'

'Personally I think it wasn't funny,' he yelled back and I smiled at the banter.

'I think I'll bring some eggnog in,' I said to Seth who rolled his eyes. I was surprised he wasn't foaming at the mouth; nearly eight twenty-five and not a single present opened.

In the kitchen I chivvied Sandy to hurry up with the coffee and collected the eggnog from the fridge. Alcoholic, of course, but it was Christmas after all.

'So two attempts at jokes in ten minutes, you feeling okay?' he mocked as we set everything down back in the living room.

I stuck my tongue out and reached for the stockings hung from the mantelpiece.

'Seth.' The word had barely left my mouth before he had swooped down to take the stocking, dipping his arm inside even as he dropped to sit cross-legged on the floor, his position and the look on his face both childlike.

'Sandy.' My husband grinned at me, retrieving the stocking, stealing a kiss and sitting beside his son.

I took mine down and joined them on the floor wondering if Sandy or Seth filled mine this year. It proved to be the latter and I found several amusing, weird little gifts, a lot of chocolate and a clementine. Seth was grinning, already sampling a chocolate snowman, so it seemed like Sandy did a good job of his. I had Law themed Sandy's stocking gifts back in September when my brain was still functioning so most of them were things for the office; a jotter pad, paper weight, some nice pens, another photo frame, that kind of thing, plus of course the requisite chocolates and clementine.

Seth, momentarily sated, allowed Sandy to go schmear some bagels whilst he, as 'Christmukkah Gift Master' selected the first three gifts to be opened. Evidently it was a difficult choice as we began eating before he'd decided and approached us solemnly with a present each.

'I love Christmukkah,' he declared as he ripped, manically, into the first gift, revealing the record player he'd been wanting. The one present Sandy and I actually bought together.

'Yessss! Thank you!' He leapt up, obviously elated and hugged us both. I love that. I love him being happy, I love our family. I wondered if he would have been happy if this was his last Christmas as an only child. I imagined another child excitedly unwrapping presents…

'Kirsten?'

I realised I was still sat with the box on my lap whilst Sandy had opened his with about as much finesse as his son, a surfing photograph in a frame on his knee. I gave myself a little shake and started carefully tugging at the wrapping paper as Sandy reached to ruffle Seth's hair in thanks. I could feel them both getting impatient but I enjoy taking my time. It proved to be three animal-shaped stress balls! A monkey, a lion and a zebra but all spherical and therefore slightly disturbing. And so Seth. I laughed and kissed him. 'Are you trying to tell me something?'

First presents opened, the frenzy really began as everyone went at their own pace, interspersed with giving and receiving thanks and hugs. An hour later, a good while after Seth and Sandy, there was a pile beside me on the sofa including new perfume, a silk scarf, several novels from an author I'd just discovered, an extra-large coffee mug, a beautifully patterned concertina file for letters and suchlike, a book of love poems and a silver bookmark with a heart at the top. Sandy was lounging in a chair proudly wearing his new Grease logo tie over his pyjamas, a large tub of surf wax, luridly patterned board shorts, new sunglasses to replace the ones he'd sat on, a surfboard shaped stress ball, a bottle of whiskey, and a coffee mug to match mine, at his feet. My son had commandeered the space in front of the fireplace, spreading out his gifts and admiring his new posters, a bag of ropes and cleats for his boat, new sketchbooks, a stack of various comic books and video games, several records and the solar powered phone charger, which I'd also got for Sandy, sick of them using the 'my cell died' excuse.

I made my way over to the tree and then to my husband. 'I have something else for you…' I began, sitting on the arm of the chair.

'Oh really? Maybe we should wait till we're alone,' he said, wiggling his eyebrows. Seth didn't look up but made one of his disgusted sounds. I batted Sandy playfully on the arm. 'Don't worry Seth, it's not like that.' I held out the small box I had hidden in the tree branches. He opened that one carefully, sliding the cardboard casing from the leather box and gently easing it open. Inside, nestled on the deep purple lining were a pair of cufflinks shaped like playing cards. The ace of hearts to be exact. He looked from the cufflinks to the message inside; _To my Ace of Hearts, Merry Christmukkah, love Kirsten x_ and then to me. His eyes were that deep, dark blue that makes me tremble inside. I love that man so much and he loves me for some strange reason.

'Thank you,' he said quietly. 'They're…I love you.'

I felt like crying. 'I love you too.'

'I um…actually have another gift for you too.'

'I have lovely presents already.'

'Oh well in that case…'

'Sandy!'

'Okay,' he relented, going to his study to fetch the mystery gift. He returned with a large, flat rectangle barely covered by the Christmas paper. I tugged it off gingerly, totally unprepared for what I saw.

--

Reviews would be v much appreciated my dears!

--


	11. Noel

Who said fate doesn't knock twice?

**Summary: **A very different abortion storyline.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own a freakin' thing more's the pity. Give it up Josh, give it up. You have your new dumb shows you obviously don't want it anymore! ;-P

--  
Yo ho ho I just finished the first of my second year exams this morning. 2/3 of this year is completed. Two more exams and 40 of my entire degree is done. Eeek! I thought I'd take a little break...as I can't face starting revision again yet, and get a chapter sorted for you. Still haven't managed to complete Christmas here; it just spiralled out of control hehe!

--

Noel

The paper fell away to reveal a painting resting on my lap. A _big_ painting, burning its way off a canvas that must have been at least 3'x 2'. It was a sunset I realised; a fiery orb at the centre, and I swallowed. I used to paint sunsets. Not quite like that. Probably not that good. The whole canvas had been washed red and the sun was a clashing pink against the sky and sea which were both aflame. The clouds were smudges of blue-mauve smoke, each wave on the ocean transformed into a flame. They scorched a path from the sun to the bottom edge of the painting, muting sideways from reds and oranges into ochres, greens and blues with the red still vibrant beneath. The horizon was a thin golden thread, barely visible, sea and sky blazing into each other. It was an intense picture; even the cooler corners smouldered, and I didn't quite know what to feel.



It was an amazing piece of art, yes, but I didn't want it. I didn't want it at all. I didn't want ever to have seen it because it made me feel too much. My head was full of suppressed thoughts, my heart yearning with unfulfilled dreams and ambitions. I was more than wistful about what could have been, I was heartbroken, and I wondered how I'd managed to repress that all those years, how this painting could take me back to when all I wanted in the world was to paint.

I could smell the oils and felt like crying.

You used to paint sunsets. The picture taunted me. You used to be an artist. Or you pretended to, because what artist would really just give it up. Artists have a fire inside that can't be quenched. Not creating would drive them crazy. Perhaps you were never destined to really be an artist. You thought you could be something more than where you came from and look where you ended up. Right. Back. Home.

It was true. I used to paint. I was an Art-Art History Major for crying out loud. And sunsets were my thing. Growing up in Newport there was a lot of beauty around but nothing as real and natural as the sunsets over the beach. My childhood room looked out across the ocean and I can't count the nights I sat and watched the sun go down. It became, in some senses, an obsession to try and catch the sunset; that perfect thing in a town of fakes. Another part of it was therapy. I drew sunset after sunset, through tears, through anger, through smiles. There were the angry pencil drawings after fights with my father, the watercolours of sad days, the abstract accidents when the bottle of vodka was half empty beside me on the window seat. So many of them weren't any good. Too many times I painted a sunset I didn't actually see before me, the lines too exact, the colours too limited. But I learned and I grew and being free from Newport and all its restrictions my sunsets became wilder, realer, raw. I knew exactly why Sandy had bought this painting. He remembered something.



Towards the end of my freshman year I had woken Sandy up in the early hours of the morning by leaping out of bed and frantically starting to paint on the back of the large notice-board hung on my wall. Exams were finally over and we'd been celebrating hard the last couple of days. I don't think I'd been sober for a week and the previous night I'd been smoking too. Sandy wasn't exactly a 'bad boy' but my father would have certainly classed him as a bad influence. Newport heiresses weren't exactly supposed to get ridiculously drunk, smoke weed and have incredible sex with Jewish boys from the Bronx. All in all it had been an amazing night and I guess I have to attribute some of what happened later to the alcohol and pot rather than my own talent and imagination. Sadly.

Basically I'd had dreamt of a lurid technicolour sunset. It doesn't sound much but it was the most trip-esque dream I have ever experienced and I woke knowing I had to try capture the colours and images in my head before sleepy darkness stole them from me. It was around four am so we couldn't have been asleep long when Sandy was so rudely awakened. He thought I was sleepwalking, sleep-painting I guess, and was more than a little freaked out. No doubt I did look more than a little strange standing naked in the shaft of light where we'd forgotten to close the curtains, feverishly painting on an improvised canvas.

That painting never got finished.

Sandy dozed for two hours, leaving me to work uninterrupted because I had evidently viciously snapped at him when he tried to guide me back to bed. I don't remember that. I don't remember much of it. Just a dimming recollection of the intense feeling I had. I painted until there wasn't a scrap of paint left in the room. It being the end of the semester stocks were already low but I had improvised; cutting tubes to get that last bead of paint, crushing watercolour blocks, using pastels dipped in water and stealing my roommate's acrylics and even her make-up.



The sun had risen before I collapsed beside Sandy again, my eyes itching with tiredness, fingers covered with paint. Half the board was alight; dawn sunshine reflecting off bright streaks of drying paint. The other half was blank and it stayed that way. When I woke again I didn't know how I had created that vibrant, abstract, crazy, beautiful painting or how to finish it. No matter how many times I tried to recreate the feeling, repeat that night, and believe me, Sandy was happy to oblige, I couldn't remember the dream clearly enough and I never found that muse again.

'Honey?'

Sandy's voice fast-forwarded me seventeen years where I was sat hunched over a similar painting. But one that was finished and wasn't mine.

'Sorry,' I said. 'I was just…speechless.'

I hoped he would think I had been engrossed in the painting, not lost in memories of another lifetime.

'Does that doesn't it? I couldn't stop staring the first time I saw it.'

'It's certainly something,' I agreed faintly, still not looking up and completely oblivious to Seth's scrutiny. Sandy was satisfied with my reaction and began rambling.

'I was in L.A. for that case remember? Right next to the court was an exhibition hall and I ended up going in during recess. You weren't meant to eat in there but...I did...I'd found a great little sandwich place around the corner you see...anyway... The artist's actually from San Francisco but she had a few paintings in the show. I saw this and couldn't walk away. Reminded me of…that painting…you know?'

I nodded and he continued almost seamlessly. 'Plus she's actually a graduate of Berkeley! So we're helping a new artist from our alma mater, isn't that great?'

'That…that's a really nice thought,' I forced out, shaping my face into a smile and looking up. 'Thank you.'



Sandy accepted a kiss, making faces when it only brushed his cheek. I just didn't feel I could hold everything together much longer, particularly if I had to open my mouth. Standing up, I rested the painting on the floor against the side of the armchair beside the tree and voiced my intention of going for a shower. Sandy was lighting the menorah but I think Seth may have seen the tears well over at the corner of my eyes as I swiped my glass of eggnog and left the room.

In the sanctuary of our bathroom I downed the rest of the golden liquid and leant against the basin, staring at myself in the mirror. The tears had begun slipping down my face somewhere between the family room and the bedroom and now I wasn't even trying to stop them. My face looked pale, eyes glassy and green. What happened to you? I wondered. Why are you so upset over a damn painting?

Except it wasn't just some painting. It was a painting that should have been mine. A life that should have been mine. A life I'd given up.

I had wanted to paint, to have exhibitions, a gallery in Sorselido. I'd wanted it enough to nearly get disinherited over going to a UC school where I could take Art.

But I'd let it all go. Talent wasted, training forgotten, dreams pushed to the back of the closet, what would probably have been my best painting unfinished and lost somewhere in the intervening years.

Perhaps I just hadn't been good enough.

My reflection was getting red and shiny and I turned away, undressing and carefully pulling the elastic support off my wrist. There's something therapeutic about hot water. I'm not sure if the shower or bed is my favourite haven but the shower does have the added bonus of washing away the evidence. No one had to know I'd cried in there for a good twenty minutes.

--



'Hey honey,' Sandy sing-songed as I entered the kitchen. 'You're very dressed up, are we expecting anyone for dinner?'

I smiled tightly, knowing he was teasing but feeling a little insecure. Flawless make-up and perfect style were my facade. I didn't think I was that smart really and my make-up was minimal. True I was wearing a dress but it wasn't very formal and I'd curled my hair simply because I'd felt like it, and it gave me an excuse to hideaway a little longer, compose myself for the day ahead.

'Just…thought I'd look nice for Christmas.'

'And you do,' he said. 'But you're putting me to shame, I better go shower and change.'

'You don't…' I began but he cut me off.

'I'm not promising a suit but I think I can do better than pjs!'

'Okay, where's Seth?'

'Still in the lounge,' he called back over his shoulder. 'He's half-way though his first comic already.'

'Graphic novel,' I heard Seth correct him as I began unpinning my hair, letting the curls fall naturally and start to come loose.

'Mom, what are you doing in the kitchen?' came the call and all of a sudden Seth was beside me, obviously concerned I was attempting something culinary.

'Relax Seth I'm nowhere near the food.'

'Good.'

'Does my hair look alright?' I asked seeing as the kitchen was lacking in mirrors.

'Uh…yeah but it was fine before.'

Surprised that he'd bothered to answer so positively I kept talking. 'Just your father thought I looked too smart.'

'Well you did look a little Newpsie-convention-esque...maybe lose the pearls as well.'



'Thanks Seth,' I said sarcastically, removing the offending jewellery, not really sure if I was hurt or not.

'It's a pleasure,' he told me, just as sarcastically. 'Anything to help a lowly gentile look as hot as the Cohen men.'

I shook my head, almost laughing. 'So you like your gifts?'

He grinned, 'Totally, they're great. Christmukkah rocks this year.' He began picking absently at a bowl of nuts on the kitchen island. 'Uh, mom…?'

'Yes?'

'Why did you freak out over what dad got you?'

'What?'

'The painting…'

'I didn't.'

'It's okay, I don't think Dad noticed.'

My breath escaped my mouth in a relieved hiss before I could stop it and Seth looked at me pointedly.

'I just…it reminded me of the past, that's all.'

'How?'

'You know I used to paint.'

'Yeah...'

'I painted a lot of sunsets.'

'Oh, and?'

'Well it just made me think about that, that time of my life...'

'Why's that so upsetting?'

'Because everything changed Seth. All those dreams went out the window.'

'And you regret it?'



I nodded. 'I know you think I didn't care about leaving Berkeley but I did. I miss it as much if not more than you.'

Seth had one eyebrow raised and his tone was laced with scepticism. 'Uhu.'

'It's true. I'm not saying coming back here wasn't easiest for me but it wasn't easy. Berkeley was…it meant a lot to me.'

'Cos you met dad?'

'Partly…but because it was the first place I got to be me. You know what this town's like… You've always had an escape plan, you're desperate to go to college far, far away and believe it or not I was exactly the same.'

'Really?'

'Berkeley might only be eight hours north but it's a world away from here.'

'You don't need to tell me.'

'I know, I just want you to understand that I loved it too. College was one of the best times of my life. I was free, I was independent, I met your father. But also it was the first place I could really pursue art, admit that's what I wanted to do with my life. We've never done anything less than encourage you to be creative…'

'Even when I drew all over the walls in the Berkeley house?'

'Well…I wasn't very happy at first but at least my baby was artistic. He took after me despite being the spitting image of his father.'

Seth laughed and my heart swelled. 'Grandpa didn't like you doing art?'

'That's perhaps an understatement.'

'He must be pretty happy now then.'

A 'not that you'd know it,' slipped out before I could stop it and Seth looked shocked. 'I never wanted to come back Seth.' I pleaded. Desperately wanting him to listen to me this time.



'Then why…'

'My mom was dying, you know that. I wanted you to spend time with her, hell I wanted to spend time with her…' I broke off, my emotion getting the better of my vocal chords.

'I know that,' he said quietly. 'I get it…I…appreciate it but…why stay?'

'We've been through this Seth…'

'Yeah but you've never really told me how much you didn't want to.'

'I had to.' I sighed. 'Hailey was younger than you are, I couldn't leave her. Dad was struggling, burying himself in work; someone had to look after her, and him. And it was hard thinking about leaving…I felt closest to my mom here…' I bit my lip. 'I don't think we ever completely meant to stay, it just kinda happened. One year slipped into two, I had a good job, we were financially stable for the first time in a long time. The house in Berkeley was sold, we worried about you changing school again…'

'Mmm.'

'Seth…I'm sorry.'

'Me too,' he said bitterly.

'I guess the painting just, brought it all back…everything I gave up.'

'So you're jealous? Of that artist?'

'Partly.' Seemed like he hadn't really taken in everything I'd said after all.

'Then you shouldn't have compromised, it was your life mom.'

'I've explained my reasons,' I snapped, not wanting to cry in front of him.

'But…'

'We're done talking about this Seth.'

He looked perturbed. 'I thought you wanted me to understand.'

I glared at him. 'I've just been trying.' The angry tone of my voice was unintentional as I tried to compensate for the waver that let me know tears were building.



Seth saw them about to spill over and rolled his eyes. 'God, you're so damn hormonal, anyone would think you were pregnant!'

I sucked in my breath sharply. 'Seth! Don't be rude.'

'I wasn't.'

'Blaspheming, swearing and being insulting isn't rude?'

Sandy appeared at the doorway and immediately registered the tension.

'What's going on son?' he asked taking in Seth's angry face and my flustered one.

'I only said she was acting all pregnant and hormonal.'

'Which I'm not!'

He was immediately in mediator mode, leaning against the counter between us, eyeing us both judiciously.

'It's Christmas…'

'Christmukkah,' Seth grumbled.

'Whatever it is we're not arguing today. Seth, apologise to your mother.'

There was a pause. 'Sorry.'

'And Kirsten, Seth was just voicing his opinion, I don't think he meant to be offensive…'

I hated it when he did this; it made me feel Seth's age.

'I'm sorry Seth, I shouldn't have yelled at you.'

Sandy was smirking. 'Good,' he continued in his honeyed, slightly patronising tone. 'Seth, you're the only one not showered, hop to it.'

Our son narrowed his eyes, 'Hop to it? What am I, five?' but sloped off.

'What was all that about?' Sandy asked.

'Oh nothing.'

'I thought you two were getting along lately.'



'He's a teenager, I'm his mother, I don't think 'getting-along' really features in our shared vocabulary right now.'

'Well with that attitude it won't.'

I was rinsing my glass tumbler wishing I'd refilled it instead. 'Sandy…I don't need you judging me right now.'

'I'm not,' he defended, following as I headed for the family room which was still strewn with redundant wrapping paper. Oh the joys of living with two men. 'I just don't get how you and Seth come to be arguing about pregnancy of all things.'

My hands were shaking as I began gathering up the trash, being careful to save any pretty bows or ribbons. 'It was just…Seth being Seth.'

'So why did you get angry?'

Because he hit far too close to home Sandy. Because I was fucking pregnant but aborted it and that's why I'm hormonal.

It's hard to think what to say when those kind of thoughts are running through your head.

'It was a peculiar accusation, it threw me…'

Sandy watched me. My agitation was no doubt evident. 'You couldn't be though could you?'

Fuck.

'No Sandy! I said I'm not.'

'I know, I know it's just that Seth is partly right; you have been a little…off lately.'

I sighed, part annoyed, part nervous. 'Look…I just…I've been busy, stressed…'

'And that's nothing new.'

'I changed contraceptive so it's bound to scramble things for a little while.' It wasn't exactly a lie.

'Oh…Why did y-'

'Anyway,' I cut him off. 'It's Christmas morning and I don't really want to talk about it so…'



'Kirsten…?'

'Yes?' I shot him a look and he crumbled.

'Merry Christmas.'

'Merry Christmas Sandy,' I said and could feel my heartbeat pounding in my chest as he hugged me.

--  
So it's a bit shorter than the last one and I'm sorry about that but I figured an update was better than nothing and I'm struggling to get Kiki drunk in a satisfactory way for the rest of the chapter! Hope you enjoyed, please read and review.

--


	12. Joyeux

Who said fate doesn't knock twice?

**Summary: **A very different abortion storyline.

**Disclaimer: **I own only ideas, not characters and hopefully, 40 of a Politics degree!

--  
I'm bad...I got distracted writing five and a half thousand words of something else! (Which may involve a certain new mom...and may appear sometime.) But I did work very hard on this chapter to make up for not posting on Wed/Thur when I planned to. I wrote over 2000 words just tonight! Enjoy my pretties.

--

Joyeux

Ten minutes later the champagne was open and I was nearly two glasses down already. It's a hazard not being allowed to help in the kitchen; it means you sit and watch, sipping away. Plus I _love_ champagne. Seth was back, his curls damp, sporting a Christmas t-shirt which depicted Santa and Jesus fighting with lightsabers. I was evidently forgiven as he didn't remonstrate when I laughed at him pretending to enjoy his glass of champagne. The boys only ever drink the requisite Christmas glass. Not that I mind.

Sandy was busy cooking and reheating the food which had arrived from the caterers the day before. He looked very handsome in a new black shirt teamed with his 'smart' jeans and I'd told him so but he seemed a little reserved. I hoped he wasn't thinking about the conversation we'd just had. In contrast I was the talkative one. Four glasses of eggnog and three flutes of 

champagne on a plain bagel was probably not the best idea because I discovered I was rambling. Perhaps babbling would be a better description. Seth and Sandy say champagne bubbles go up their nose but they always go straight to my head.

Eventually tiring of sitting with nothing to do and trying to out-talk Seth I sauntered off to lay the table in the dining room. There wasn't too long to wait for dinner; one of the joys of having it catered, which was just as well considering the way the room shifted with each step I took. Thankfully laying out silverware as it should be is second nature by now. I've been doing it for dinners, parties and Newport functions since I was eight. I did however debate for a good ten minutes over red candles or green candles. It's a tough decision you know. The wrong choice could easily have a temperamental son declare the Christmukkah decorations to be 'ruined'. It took another glass of champagne for me to select the safe option of using both colours of candle, and of course, having successfully filled the candelabras and lit each other the candles without incident, it was necessary to toast my good fortune and excellent taste in table ornamentation. Or something like that.  
Back in the kitchen I found a hive of activity. Once again Seth and Sandy were working together to create a holiday meal and once again it struck me how this was another activity for them to bond over. One where I was redundant, unwanted, the odd one out. Another failure.  
'Kirsten, there you are!' Sandy exclaimed, smiling at me as I lingered in the doorway feeling unwelcome and insecure. 'We're almost done here.'

'Great,' I said, setting my champagne flute on the sideboard and leaning against it. The kitchen island was piled with food and I wondered, as I did every year, why we always ordered so much for just the three of us.  
'Do you want to open the wine?' he asked, inclining his head towards the bottle on the counter.  


'Sure.' I answered, searching out the corkscrew and then stopping. 'Aren't we having red?'  
'I thought you'd want white with the prawns.'  
'Well yes, but we can't have Chardonnay with the goose!'

'Why not?'

I gave him a look and headed for the wine rack. Another side-effect of alcohol on an empty stomach; being irritable and snappish about everything and nothing. I _really_ needed to eat.

'Don't you think two bottles is a little unnecessary?' Sandy ventured when I returned.  
'Well excuse me for wanting wines which complement the food.'  
He sighed and I just knew he was questioning his decision to marry someone from 'high society' as he always put it, wondering what happened to the girl in Berkeley who drank wine straight out of the bottle and beer from a keg.  
I wondered too, even as I set the second bottle down, a little too heavily. She had simply gotten lost in the chaos of the intervening years. She was in me somewhere. I just didn't know where anymore and I didn't have the strength, time or inclination to seek her out.  
'I'm not saying we have to drink it all,' I said, softening my voice. 'We do have bottle stoppers.'  
'I'll help,' Seth offered and I shot my second 'look' in five minutes at my son, who, rather than backtracking, began to plead his case. Damn lawyer's offspring.  
'You know it's probably better for you to introduce me to alcohol in the home,' he started. 'Teaching me responsible drinking with a meal so I understand the finer pleasures of such beverages would make me less likely to experiment in years to come. In fact...' he paused, thinking for a moment before warming to his subject. 'Such a healthy, open attitude will probably form me into a much more well rounded individual; knowledgeable, mature, better able to resist peer pressure to drink at less suitable times. It might even save me from the cult of binge drinking, or hedonistic beach parties or drinking alone, in secret in my room.'  


'When have you been to a beach party?' I asked.  
'I haven't...yet,' he admitted. 'But it's only freshman year; my high school years are young. Or there's always college.'  
'The answer's still no Seth. Go get your Pepsi.'  
'He could have one glass,' Sandy cut in. 'The kid has a point...'  
'He's already had a glass of champagne.'  
'Actually you drank most of it mom.'  
'He's too young,' I insisted.  
'Aren't most of his peers too young? I doubt many Newport teens are asking their parents to sample a fine wine over lunch.'  
'Fine,' I huffed, grabbing an extra glass for Seth and a dish of potatoes before stalking towards the dining room.  
Sandy followed, arms laden. 'Don't get mad Kirsten, it's Christmukkah...' he soothed as we placed the platters of food on the table and in the warming cabinet by the wall.  
'I'm not mad,' I lied. 'I just don't like it when you undermine my authority.'  
'Undermine your authority? We're not in a detention centre.'

'You always give in to him,' I hissed. 'You're always Mr Nice Guy, that's why he hates me so much. I'm the one who has to put their foot down, do all the dirty work.'  
He sighed and shook his head at me. 'Don't start this now.'

'I'm not starting anything...' I had begun but trailed off as Seth appeared with the last of the dishes.

'Mother, Father, undeniable tension, how good it is to see you all. How relieved I am your cousin, sexual tension, couldn't make it this year.'  
'Could you bring the wine in Seth?' Sandy asked as we both ignored our son's comment.  
'No more arguments?' he bartered.

'With pleasure.'  
'No playing footsie under the table?'

'Just go Seth.'

Seth gave a mock salute an ambled back to the kitchen as my husband approached me around the table.

'Are you sure you're okay?' he asked, stroking a hand down the curls at the edge of my face.  
I closed my eyes momentarily, telling myself once again that I was okay, and nodded. I leant forward to press a kiss to his cheek and smiled wanly. 'I just need to eat.'

'Seth and I have been sampling scraps of this feast all morning,' he admitted, pulling out my chair. I sat, grateful to be off my feet, and waited for the boys take their seats.  
Christmukkah dinner passed in the traditional way. We sat, as we always did, with Sandy and I at the head and foot of the table, Seth between us. Crackers were pulled simultaneously, with the paper hats essential wear for the duration of the meal. Seth kept up steady flow of chatter as we polished off prawn cocktails, bread rolls and a glass or two of Chardonnay. I may have insisted on red for the second course but I have always had somewhat of a soft spot for that particular white wine.  
The first course took the edge off my tipsiness until the wine began to kick in. By the time our plates were filled with succulent slices of goose, potatoes both roasted and mashed, seven different vegetables and stuffing, all drenched in think onion gravy, I wasn't really feeling up to eating. The silverware felt heavy and unwieldy in my fingers and I struggled surreptitiously with cutting my food, hoping that no one would notice. But with Seth immersed in his food to the point where he was almost completely silent, and Sandy at the opposite end of our overly large dining table, I managed to escape detection. Actually eating, however, proved even more of a difficulty. I managed to clear an acceptable amount of my plate but needing to wash every other mouthful down most likely cancelled out my pitiful 

attempts at lining my stomach two hours too late. Talk about closing the stable door after the horse has bolted but that Merlot was just such a good vintage.  
So good that I wasn't even particularly unsteady on my feet as we cleared the table for desert. A fat Christmas pudding, doused in cognac and set alight is a tradition I hold us to every year despite not particularly liking the taste. I enjoy the flickering blue flames dancing a crown round the top of the fruity brown moon but never eat more than half a bowlful, even when it's covered with liberal amounts of brandy cream. That year I ate a spoonful, for old time's sake, but the flavours were too strong, the cream too cloying in my mouth and I left it at that. Seth loves any type of pudding and Sandy, having never tasted Christmas pud until he was twenty-three, likes to make up for lost time. I inadvertently drank another glass while they finished their second and third helpings and consequently, clearing up took rather longer than it should have. The boys had to stop every minute or so to comment on how full they were and pat their stomachs whilst I didn't dare carry more than a few pieces of crockery at once as I gingerly moved from dining room to kitchen and back again. Forty minutes later, however, the dishwasher was humming, Seth was immersed in a comic book and Sandy was dozing in his armchair. I had curled up on the sofa, nursing the penultimate glass in the bottle and trying to ignore the corner of canvas I could see on the other side of the armchair. The fuzziness in my head made it hard for thoughts to get through though and for that I was thankful.

--

About four there came the chime of the doorbell and Sandy made himself scarce knowing it was my Dad. That left me to try walk in a straight line to the front door. Thank god for the 'occasional table' by the door. He had rung three times before I'd gotten there and checked my reflection in the mirror.  
To no avail.

'Kiki you're drunk,' my father said by way of greeting. I raised an eyebrow and headed back to the sofa, upending the rest of the nearby wine bottle into my glass and sitting back down.

'Merry Christmas Dad,' I said raising it in his general direction just to antagonise him. 'You didn't mind getting whiskey again did you?'

'Certainly not. Need a supply of the stuff, don't mess with a good thing I always say. I bought your mother diamonds almost every year of our marriage and she never complained.'

'She wasn't one for complaining,' I pointed out simply because I was drunk.

Dad rolled his eyes but let it go, reaching into his blazer pocket. 'Merry Christmas Kiks.'

He handed me a slim gold box tied with a ribbon. Inside I discovered a beautiful silver pen and pencil set.

'You keep signing documents in some horrible biro or something,' he said by way of explanation. Because Caleb Nichol had to have excuse for giving a gift at Christmas. It was beautiful though and being top of the range, would write like a dream.

'Thanks dad.'

'Caleb,' Sandy acknowledged from the kitchen. 'Want anything to drink?'

He doesn't buy presents for Sandy. It used to bother me at first, thinking of the way he'd treated Jimmy but Sandy didn't care. He didn't want begrudging gifts picked out by my father's PA. I was the one who bought the whiskey every year and signed it from all of us so it seemed fair to him. I still wasn't entirely convinced.

'A glass of anything that's open,' dad replied, being surprisingly accommodating. 'That is if Kiki hasn't drunk it all.' He lowered his voice and turned to me, 'Really sometimes you are so like your mother and not always in a good way.'

The implications of his words stung. He'd known. He'd known but never stopped her slide into what would probably be considered alcoholism in anyone else but passed unnoticed in 

this town or was excused as the last pleasure of a dying woman. Not only that but he was insinuating I had the same problem.

'Have you heard from Hailey?' I asked spitefully, knowing his weakness when it came to the absence of his favourite daughter, and he stalked off.

'Where's my grandson?' he asked two minutes later, obviously retreating from the kitchen where he had to actually acknowledge Sandy.

'Upstairs,' I muttered, leaning back in my chair as my father headed for the stairs, cognac in hand. I guess I had finished the last open bottle of wine.

I was still flopped like that when Sandy appeared beside me.

'What's up?' he asked, settling on the sofa.

I shook my head, not looking away from the ceiling.

He gave up trying to make me talk, knowing I wasn't one to dish the dirt on my father, particularly when he was in the same building. Instead he began unpacking his phone charger to test it out as I watched lazily. The silence verged on uncomfortable.

Seth bounded down a while later waving three original records and a print-out notifying him of a large sum of money transferred into his account by his grandfather. Dad followed and sat for a while listening to Seth wax lyrical about the LPs and how his grandfather had shown him how to set up and use the record player. I smiled in spite of myself because at least my father was nice to one member of the family. He could have so easily rejected Seth, Sandy's child, particularly since he resembled his father so closely. But he hadn't. And even though Seth wasn't the confident, athletic, popular grandson he'd envisioned, it heartened me that he spent time with Seth, encouraging his love of music and sailing.

--

'Kirsten…' I heard through my subconscious. 'Kirsten sweetheart…'

I lifted my face from where it was mushed into the duvet and opened my eyes a crack. 'Huh?'

'We're gonna watch a film, you gonna come?'

--

Once my father had left I had drained my glass and made an exasperated noise as I glanced over at Sandy.

'Don't look at me,' he'd chided. 'I'll just say exactly what you're thinking but don't wanna admit.'

I absently circled my finger around the top of the empty glass until the ethereal hum of the crystal filled the air. The sound was broken off abruptly when I knocked it over.

'Damn,' I'd sworn unnecessarily and forced myself up out of my chair. Well there was no point sitting with it empty was there.

Shuffling gingerly into the kitchen I discovered the rest of the champagne on the sideboard. The bottle was half full and I was craving the pick-me-up of the bubbles. I drank most of it in the kitchen, swilling the golden liquid with the dregs of wine left in my previous glass; a Newport faux pas but I was beyond caring. I hadn't wanted this life anyway, with its stuffy social conventions and incessant gossip over the latest 'scandal'.

After shifting a couple of appliances around and smoothing the stack of Christmas napkins I headed back to the living room with the final glass of the bottle brimming in my hand. As expected Sandy raised one of his ample eyebrows and said my name in a single, exasperated, disappointed breath.

'Waste not, want not,' I said jovially, just to annoy him. I don't really know why, I was just drunk. The drunkenness where you've spread the glasses out, eaten enough to still be standing. Where everything is a _little_ bit hazy, you might grope for a door handle before making contact but you're still functioning. There might be a slight buzzing your head but you can still make out what people say; if you care to listen that is. You can take another sip without your hand slipping, walk (slowly) without falling over and speak without sounding 

completely gone. But you're right on the edge. Every next glass could send you toppling over into full blown blotto, hammered, inebriated, intoxicated, legless, pissed, plastered, sloshed, sodden, sozzled, smashed, tanked, toasted, more than three-sheets to the wind, wasted, wankered, whatever you wanted to call it; basically damn fucking drunk as hell.

And that's what that glass of champagne did.  
I don't remember dropping it, but by process of elimination I've worked out that that must have been the day our champagne flutes went from twelve to eleven. I think I must have tripped on the rug, I'm not sure, but somehow I was empty handed and pressed up awkwardly against Sandy. I guess he caught me before I fell.  
I remember being half led, half carried to our bedroom through a house that didn't seem to be mine, I felt so disorientated, and the buzzing in my head was too loud to make out the disembodied voice that must have come from my husband.  
I remember him laying me down sideways on the bed and tugging off my shoes, draping a blanket over me and leaving a kiss on my forehead before going to clear up the spilt champagne.  
I remember mumbling something incoherent and waiting for his footsteps to subside down the hallway before lurching my way to the bathroom and parting with my feeble Christmas dinner. Even back in college I wouldn't let him see me sick. I'd fight if I knew things had got that bad and he wanted to take me home. I would lie for what felt like hours, gripping the mattress, sweat forming on my forehead as I waited for him to drop off so I could creep out of bed and repent, alone, over the porcelain for my drinking sins.  
I remember frantically brushing my teeth and spritzing perfume about the en suite to hide my shame.  
I don't remember getting back to bed. I don't remember drifting off. I don't remember anything until Sandy's face swimming before my bleary eyes about three hours later.

--  
'I'm sorry,' I'd muttered, standing up carefully and sliding my feet into my slippers, but Sandy hadn't responded, simply eyeing me with concern and offering an arm. He guided me to the living room where Seth was fiddling with the DVD player and we settled on the sofa.  
'Ew, talk about bed-head mom,' he commented as he stretched out on the floor with a blanket and large bowl of popcorn. He began eyeing his father judiciously. 'I'm in two minds as to whether your untidy mop counts as a bed-head,' he told him. 'I probably should pause the film and send you both to have a shower, but that has potentially more traumatic consequences than the trauma caused by potential bed hair so I shall give you the benefit of the doubt.'  
'Why thank you son,' Sandy replied, focusing on the screen as the infamous lion roared in greeting.  
I smiled, probably inanely, at our son. 'Sometimes Seth, I wonder where you came from,' I said affectionately, my voice sleepy.  
I don't think I made it through the title sequence before I dropped off.

--  
PLEASE leave a review! I would be SO chuffed to get a couple more. I have a few loyal reviewers who I love to bits, they are amazing, but 5 reviews for 126 hits for the last chapter was a little disappointing. Particularly since that was the lowest number of hits so far  I guess that is one of the perils of not updating regularly but now I've finished exams I should be making up for that so keep checking for updates if you're still enjoying it, and if not, let me know why!

--


	13. Boxing Day

Who said fate doesn't knock twice?

**Summary: **A very different abortion storyline.

**Disclaimer: **I own my brain but not Josh's and the things which have emitted from it.

--  
Okay...firstly, thank you for all the reviews, I got a good few more last chapter and have broken the 100 barrier! That's amazing cos I have fics written at the height of the O.C. which didn't do that well. So thank you!  
Secondly, I'm so sorry I was late, again! So many things got in the way of writing (mainly other writing, oops!) and then I wrote some when I was in a bad mood and it just didn't work so I had to start again  
Thirdly, this isn't the longest chapter...I'm afraid it's shorter than many others, but I wanted to get one up and I'm having a little trouble with this section of the fic. However I do have a couple of plans up my sleeve...perhaps another drs appointment, a trip to a certain gallery in San Francisco, some more drinking and a romantic evening...then of course all I have planned for the ending!

Enjoy

--

Boxing Day

Sandy obviously knew I was hungover the next day and was consequently less sympathetic and attentive. I'm not saying he abandoned me as punishment or anything, just that he was annoyed and worried. As much as I love alcohol, it's not often I go on a bender. I knew I would be in for the Sandy Cohen inquisition later, but he also knew better than to start with 

me before I'd had some caffeine. I woke to an empty house, a stone-cold cup of coffee on the table beside me, a packet of aspirins and a note.

_Seth couldn't wait a minute longer so we've gone to kit out the Summer Breeze._

_Hope you're feeling okay_

_S_

It was nearing midday so I couldn't blame them even though I was disappointed to be left in an empty house. An empty house so full of thoughts and where a certain painting lurked, spurring more.  
I reached, blindly, for the aspirin and swallowed two dry before ducking my head back under the covers and waiting for them to kick in.  
They didn't, quite frankly, and an hour later I had to admit defeat and crawl out of bed. Shuffling to the bathroom I realised I was no longer in yesterday's dress. At some point Sandy must have changed me into pyjamas. Or rather, an old t-shirt of his. I don't know whether that was because he knows how comforting I find wearing his clothes or because mine are, and I quote, "too fiddly to get on and off", but it made me smile. I know amidst his worry and frustration at my drinking he will have cherished a moment where he was able to look after me. It's not often he's allowed.  
I dragged on my robe and headed for the kitchen, moving slowly and carefully so as to not jolt my sensitive stomach and head. The coffee pot stirred as I flicked the switch and I was relieved to see it wasn't empty. I didn't think I could face the hassle of filling it just then. I took a glass tumbler and a mug from the cupboard, setting them carefully on the countertop to avoid any sharp noises. One I filled with icy water from the tap, the other, aromatic coffee. I sniffed gratefully and sought out a dry bagel to wash down with the liquids. Food, as unappealing as it was right then, was vital to surviving the day. Loath for Seth and Sandy to return and find me looking such a state in the spotless kitchen I ate in the bedroom, nibbling 

and sipping at the table, the blinds still drawn against another no doubt perfect, sun-kissed California day.  
Much as I wanted to creep back under the covers and hide from the hideous hangover, which was all the worse for the fact it was self perpetuated, I knew I shouldn't. Sandy would only worry. And so I took a long, hot shower, willing the spray to revive me and soothe the drumming in my head.  
The boys came back as I was stood shivering in the closet deciding what to wear. Behind me the bathroom was full of steam but the AC meant the air in the rest of the house was chill against my skin. Sandy refrained from calling out one of his Brady Bunch greetings as they arrived, knowing I would either be still in bed or nursing a headache somewhere within earshot. I heard him telling Seth to 'hop it' to the shower for the second time in two days and our son repeating his complaint about the language. By the sound of it Seth had taken an impromptu dip at some point. I was immediately worried; sailing was so dangerous. What if he was hurt, what if he'd swallowed a lot of seawater? I cringed at the thought of the salt water, seaweed, fish and god knows what else touching my little boy. But the rational side of me insisted he would not appreciate his towel-clad mother rushing to check him over, particularly if he was trying to take a shower. And I would have heard if something had really gone wrong.  
Nonetheless, when Sandy appeared in our bedroom the first words out of my mouth were in regard to Seth and his safety.  
Sandy answered patiently, reassuring me that there had been no big accident; our clumsy son had merely pulled vigorously on a rope which was unattached and fallen in when there was no resistance. I nodded slightly, impatient for Seth to reappear downstairs so I could see for myself, and noticed Sandy's eyes on me. There was the concern I had been expecting but also a hint of lust where his eyes skimmed the edges of the too-short towel. I turned away, back to 

the closet, and by the time I had gotten dressed in a pair of worn jeans and Sandy's Berkeley sweater it was gone; lost in the anxious blue whirlpools. The blinds were now open and I squinted in the bright sunlight. When he beckoned me over to the table I sat reluctantly, shielding my eyes with my hand.  
'How're you feeling?'  
'Fine and dandy,' I answered with clear faux cheeriness to my tone.  
'Kirsten...' He sighed and reached for my hand, twining our fingers together before beginning again. 'Honey...I'm just...a little worried about you.'  
'I just have a little hangover,' I insisted, lying through my teeth.  
'I don't mean the hangover, I'm talking about the reasons behind it.'  
'Um...let's see...I got drunk? Pretty straightforward there.' I don't know why I was so snappish, I guess I just didn't want to be having that conversation, particularly not when my head was so scrambled.  
'Why did you get so drunk?'  
'It's Christmas Sandy, everyone overindulges a little. You and Seth prefer to do it with puddings...'  
'That's all?'  
'I don't know...I was bored...you wouldn't let me help with cooking...'  
'That's no reason to go on a bender.'  
'I wasn't...' I began but he cut me off.  
'As much as you like to pretend otherwise sometimes, I do know you pretty well. And something's not been right for a while. You haven't been well, you haven't seemed...happy...and the last few days you've drank more than your weight in alcohol.'  
'You exaggerate,' I told him lamely.  
'Not by much. Sweetheart, if there's something wrong...'  


I shook my head and staring through the table at our feet.  
'You know it's really not this hard. You just talk to me...tell me what's on your mind. It helps, remember?'  
I did remember. I knew how much better Sandy could make me feel about things. He'd been doing it since we met. But he couldn't fix everything.  
'I just...I'm getting older...'  
'You're still beautiful.'  
'I get tired...with work, you know how it is.'  
'I know you work too hard but you've always been that way.'  
It didn't seem as though he would take the work excuse today, his brow furrowed, eyes sceptical. I had to say something...  
'It's nothing, really.'  
'It's something,' he countered. Damn lawyers were irritating.  
'No...I told you that I'd um...changed contraceptive...'  
'Uhu.'  
'Well like I said...it just scrambled me up a little. I had some side-effects, that's all.'  
'Really?'  
'Yes. Nausea...mood swings...being emotional...'  
'Increased desire for alcohol?'  
'Mood swings,' I repeated. 'The need for a pick me up.'  
'Nothing else.'  
I shook my head again.  
'Okay,' he said slowly. 'I just wish you'd tell me these things, tell me how you feel so I can make you feel better. Surely that isn't as bad as suffering that hangover of yours?'  
I shrugged and leant towards him, pressing my face into his shoulder. 'I love you,' I 

mumbled, my words muffled by his shirt. He understood though, stroking my hair and placing a kiss on my head.

'I love you too.'  
I was off the hook. For a while at least.  
--

I found that for once I wasn't looking forward to going back to work. Christmas had given me some good family moments amidst everything else and I had my three-week post-abortion appointment to deal with. I'd told the doctor at the hospital I'd see my local practitioner and my GP that I'd see the other doctor. Unfortunately they were under worked enough to actually check up on me. I had already had two close calls before Christmas where Sandy had almost heard messages from the surgery on the answer phone and figured I had to admit defeat. I could pull it off. I was doing an alright job at keeping Sandy off my back and he was a damn good lawyer, a pesky doctor I could convince in minutes. Beneath this facade I wasn't quite as confident and these pressures combined with Sandy's pleading eyes and careful questions made me weaken a little further. My Boxing Day reprieve was short-lived when I cracked somewhat over the issue of a certain colourful canvas.  
That particular gift remained where I had set it down between the armchair and the tree since Christmas morning. As other presents were looked at, moved and found homes, it skulked in the shadows, a vibrant menace no one else could understand. We were sat in the lounge the night before I was due back at work when Sandy brought it up. I had steadfastly ignored the corner of canvas visible beside the chair for two days but he had suddenly noticed it and begun to muse over where the painting should hang. I stayed quiet as he ruminated and he soon noticed.  
'Where'd you think?' he asked. 'It is your painting after all.'  
'Um...'  
'Perhaps in here, or the kitchen table by the wall...'  
Both those options were less than appealing to me. I didn't want that fantastic piece of art mocking my failures every time I walked in the front door or sat down to eat.  
'Or even our room...'  
'I'm not sure it would go in the bedroom...'  
'We have to think about whether it goes with the decor?' he asked incredulously.  
I gave him a look and he caved.  
'Okay, okay. So where _would_ it be suitable?'  
When I shrugged he sprung up and tried to pull me up to join him.  
'In that case we shall go look.'  
'Aw Sandy no,' I complained. 'I was comfortable.'  
'Come on,' he insisted, tugging at my hand. I stood up reluctantly and joined him on his reconnaissance mission about our house. He became a little frustrated and a little suspicious as I vetoed room after room; the bedroom, the living room, the kitchen, the family room, even the foyer.  
'Do you not like it?' he asked suddenly, en route from the dining room which I had accepted as a possibility.  
I stopped in the hallway, looking up at him in shock. 'What? No...it's an amazing piece of art.'  
'But...?'  
'But nothing,' I lied, glancing into the next doorway. 'How about in here?''In my study?'  
'It would go really well with the walls and think how inspiring it would be while you're working...or perhaps distracting, but still...'  
'But it's your present,' he pointed out, following me in. 'You won't see it much if it's in here.'  
'You must really like it though,' I improvised, perching on the edge of the desk and biting my lip. I knew he wouldn't resist for too long. 'I mean, you bought it, something in it appealed to you. I want us to share it.'  
He looked somewhat convinced, nodding at my statement. 'Well yes...it reminded me of Berkeley...your art...that night...'  
I dropped my head slightly not wanting to begin reminiscing about those days when I felt so insecure about leaving them behind.  
He noticed immediately, of course. 'What's wrong?'  
'Nothing.'  
Sandy came closer, lifting my head and spying the unshed tears I didn't want him to see. 'Kirsten my love...'  
I shook my head, tears spilling over and belying my hasty 'I'm fine'.  
'What is it? Is it the painting?'  
'No...maybe...not exactly.'  
The confusion was easy to read in his eyes. 'I thought...I thought you'd like it.'  
'I do...it's just...it brings back a lot of memories...feelings...'  
'But good ones right?'  
I nodded. 'But I never finished that painting...I never became an artist, owned a gallery. I failed at all that.'  
'You didn't fail,' he told me urgently. 'Your life just took a different path. I don't believe you've ever failed at anything Kirsten Nichol Cohen.'  
'I miss those days, those dreams...I miss...Berkeley,' I whispered as he pulled me into his arms. It wasn't something I admitted often. After all, I was the one who had forced my unwilling, unhappy family to stay in Southern California.  
'Oh honey,' he murmured, rocking me slightly. 'I miss it too.'  
I'm not sure he understood completely. Sandy had fulfilled his ambitions to be a public defence lawyer both in Berkeley and California. Although he had given up so much for me his passion was still his job. I don't know how much he registered my unhappiness at losing out on my dreams amidst my tears. For him those golden years and dreams were all tied up with Berkeley; that was the most important thing, and that's how he took it; suggesting, as he did every so often, that we think about moving back.  
But it was too late now. We were older, different people. Who was to say Seth would fit in any better there? I couldn't leave my dad or the security of a job I'd known so long. Being an artist was a crazy dream from over a decade ago and there were other artists working where my studio might have been.  
So I refused, as always.  
Perhaps it was just as well.

--

Please review for imaginary fairy cakes covered in hundreds and thousands!


	14. New Year

Who said fate doesn't knock twice?

**Summary: **A very different abortion storyline.

**Disclaimer: **Nada, nada, nada. Josh won.

--  
Once again another apology from me. But this one is really heartfelt as I never intended to fail to update for three weeks. I just became rather distracted and busy. I have written over 14000 words of my Kelly fic so that is the biggest culprit! I'm also having a bit of trouble with this section of the story. It ends in July and I have that bit all written but these few months kind of in the middle I am just not so sure about. It's not that I've lost inspiration for this fic as such, I still want to write it, I'm just not finding it so easy to write. So any ideas and thoughts would be appreciated. I hope you enjoy this chapter, I wrote almost all of it tonight which isn't usual for me!  
--

New Year

Work was quiet. Most people were off until January so there was pretty much only my dad and me in the office. It wasn't exactly ideal but I could deal with it. Despite the fact he lambasts me if I don't come in, there are still jibes about cutting short the holidays to endure. Thankfully there were only a couple of days before New Years and I hoped that when everyone was back and business was running as usual he would be too busy to bother me.  
I should be so lucky.  
My appointment was on the last day of the year. Dealing with that and then the Newpsies 

three hours later at Taryn's New Years Eve party made it hard to leave my desk that afternoon, even if we were only popping in on the way to our annual dinner. But I couldn't miss the appointment and I couldn't skip showing my face at the party. Doctors would call, people would talk. So I had to go.  
Just as I had had to most of my life.  
'Kirsten,' Dr Marshall said warmly and my heart sank. I didn't want a cosy chat with the doctor who I had bared far too much of my soul to. I smiled a tight smile and sat down, not meeting her eyes but not so she would notice.  
'How have you been?'  
'Okay.'  
If my reticence bothered her she didn't show it. 'Perhaps we should complete the physical first and then we can talk.'  
'Sure,' I said, thinking sure, nothing makes me feel more comfortable about talking than having you look at my privates first.  
The exam was mercifully brief and she didn't call me on breaking the no-sex rule early so everything must have appeared to be fine.  
Back at the desk she tapped a few keys, obviously bringing up my file on the computer. I sat and waited, trying to collect my thoughts. I could pull this off. I could convince her I was fine.

I _was_ fine.

Mostly.

Maybe.  
I must have done enough to convince her, or at least convince her that there was nothing she could do to change how I felt or to make me talk, because I was out in the freedom of the parking lot within the half hour. I breathed deeply and climbed into the car. It was warm from 

the afternoon sun and I suddenly felt stifled. My chest was tight. I was reaching to put the key in the ignition when I realised my hand was blurry. My eyes prickled and suddenly there was a rush of tears into my lap.  
I'm not sure how long I sat hunched in the car crying before finally guiding the keys to the ignition and starting for home. I cried that time, not really for what I'd done but because I had sat and lied to a doctor about how I felt.  
I had lied, barefaced, to myself.

--  
Dinner was nice and not just down to the relief at leaving the Newpsies behind. Sandy, thinking he was in possession of all the facts now, was off the offensive and back to being my all time favourite dinner companion.  
I was quiet but he didn't comment.  
I didn't each much but he didn't criticise.  
I fell asleep before Dick Clark and the ball dropped but he didn't complain.  
We hadn't been drinking that night and I woke up relishing the lack of hangover but realising there was nothing else to block out the thoughts that rushed to greet me each morning. Nonetheless, with the holiday season having slipped past in a haze of eggnog, champagne and merlot, I was determined to at least try to act on the clean slate of a New Year. The pounding headache of a hangover might force certain unwelcome thoughts and memories a little further back into my head but it sure made focussing on blueprints and budgets difficult. It wasn't advisable.  
I tried. I did. But two weeks in, two weeks on autopilot, and I found I couldn't. Someone from Human Resources came in with their baby and I couldn't keep it together. I locked my office door, closed the blinds and the tears came back. That is what I had turned my back on. That tiny little thing gurgling in its car seat.



It wasn't even a particularly cute baby and yet I cried for a good two hours.  
Plan B came into effect.

Going cold turkey was a mistake. Coping in whatever way worked was underrated. If that meant a mainly liquid diet then so be it. Surely caffeine counted as a super food?

I wasn't eating enough and Sandy noticed, forever plying me with this and that. Sweet as it was it soon became irritating when the last thing you wanted was left-over Thai waved under your nose. If I was suffering from depression I self medicated. There was no way I could have gone back to the doctor and admitted no, I wasn't coping with my decision actually. Strong coffee, a few large glasses of wine over dinner and a nightcap to get me through those dark hours. It was only for a little while…really. I dragged myself out of it by Valentine's. I always manage to. I guess I have my own defence mechanism somewhere that latently kicks in and this time my favourite holiday provided the extra push.

Sandy for once agreed to vaguely celebrate. He wanted to take me away as a late anniversary cross Valentine's present. I said I couldn't spare the time from work; like always. Truth be told I was afraid he'd see past my façade, see the cracks I was hastily trying to patch up. I was scared I'd confide in him if he proved himself the loving husband is when I let him. So I didn't let him. Not that much.

We had dinner at home, out on the patio with candles, and I didn't drink a drop all day until the champagne that evening. He was so charming and attentive. I felt more contented than I had in a long time that night as he looked down at me, eyes bright and skin flushed and whispered how much he loved me. I told him I loved him too, which was true, and kid myself that I was fine, which wasn't. But hey, I already knew that.

--

As California began to warm up once again, not that it ever really gets below lukewarm in the winter, I took life a day at a time. Strong coffee in the morning and at least once more during 

the day was still part of the routine but it was for Sandy too, and had been since his long days and nights studying in Law School, so I figured I could get away with it. A herbal tea on an evening more often than not eased me into sleep even if it couldn't ensure it would be dreamless. Wine was saved for dinner, only earlier on bad days, and Sandy's cognac stayed in the cupboard. I was doing okay but there was still something bothering me. Other than the obvious.

Something burning its way off the wall in Sandy's study.  
Well not that as such more the person who had painted it.

--

'I have a business meeting next week,' I began that night. Sandy was sat reading in bed and not really listening.

'Uhu.'

'It's in San Francisco so I'm taking the jet.'

'Right…good.'

'I'll be staying overnight…'

'What?'

'In a hotel.'

'What hotel? Where?'

I sighed. 'In San Fran…business trip. I just told you. You weren't listening.'

He looked sheepish. 'Sorry. So when are you going?'

'Next week; Wednesday.'

'Oh…do you want me to come?'

'_No_. I mean…no, there's Seth and you have work.'

'O-kay.'

'I'll be back Thursday.'



'Alright,' he said, turning back to his book. 'I just thought maybe some us time…'

'You know it wouldn't be like that. I'd be in meetings all day and then I'd be shattered.'

'Yeah I guess.'

'I don't want Seth left on his own.'

'I'm sure he'd be fine.'

'Yes he wouldn't mind but I would. I didn't like it as a kid. Plus he'd probably skip school…or worse. I'd rather you were here with him.'

'Okay honey.'

'Thanks,' I said, biting my lip and feeling sick at lying to him, again.

There wasn't any business trip. I was going to SF for personal reasons. It was perhaps ridiculous but I had to see that artist. The details of her studio were printed on a label on the back of the painting and I'd looked online to see when it was open. I felt nosey, intrusive, embarrassed, but I wanted to meet her. I wanted to know who she was, why she had painted that sunset, whether she was living my dream. It was just something I had to do for myself. Put old ghosts to rest perhaps.

--

My plan went pretty smoothly. I fed my dad some cock and bull story about a potential but insanely private client in Northern California and surprisingly he bought it. Perhaps he had a new girlfriend or something who was keeping him occupied. I didn't really want to know, I was just relieved. I landed in SF late afternoon but bailed on visiting the gallery until the next day. My evening was uneventful; dinner alone in my room to avoid the advances of any well-sauced business Romeos in the bar or restaurant. It had happened before and the last thing I felt like was male attention. Heck I was loath enough to call Sandy and have to continue my charade and the little white lies, but I couldn't not of course. He would worry like crazy and a part of me wished I was at home with him rather than on this wild goose chase I had sent 

myself on.  
The morning dawned sunny but cooler than home and I thought how Sandy would have found it refreshing. Having been born and raised in Southern Cali the heat has never bothered me. But Sandy, although he knows the humidity of a city summer in New York, has always maintained that summer on the West coast is different, drier, hotter. I wondered, as I sought out a cafe for brunch, whether I should have let him come. Perhaps admitted my real purpose for going, let Seth take a day out of hated school and made it a family trip. But of course I hadn't. I had chosen to go alone. I love my family more than anything but it is not second nature to think to include them in everything. It doesn't mean I love them any less. I've just always been individual and pretty self-sufficient. Or at least I like to appear that way.  
An hour or so later I was finally in the area of the city which housed galleries, studios and craft shops. I found the little street which was home to her gallery and finally forced myself inside. Kirsten Nichol Cohen doesn't fail at tasks set by anyone, certainly not herself. And I wasn't about to head back home without completely that one. The gallery wasn't large but its open plan and high ceilings gave the impression of spaciousness. It stretched the length of the building from the front door and bay windows to the back where it narrowed into a sort of conservatory room that appeared to be her studio.  
A bell on the door trilled as I entered but I couldn't see anyone from the front of the room. I made my way slowly down the aisle of a room. Paintings hung somewhat haphazardly from the walls on either side and low tables in a line in the middle were covered with sketchbooks and drawings. It wasn't the gallery I had imagined in my dreams but it wasn't far from it either.  
On one side of the far end of the room a spiral staircase wound its way up to the ceiling in scrolling wrought iron. I guessed, from the height of the gallery ceiling, that there could only be an attic space up there and wondered if that was where she lived. Not many artists could 

afford galleries, studios and homes that were separate. Many of them didn't want to. Against the opposite wall was a desk without a chair. It didn't look as though the desk was much used. In contrast, the studio I could see through the archway at the end of the room was filled with canvases, sketchbooks, art materials, easels, newspapers, magazine cuttings, photographs and coffee cups, although which held coffee and which dirty water was hard to tell. It also housed the artist herself.

--

She was different from me and that was such a relief. If she'd been petite, blonde and classic looking I really would have felt like she had taken my life. But she wasn't.  
Rae F. McNeil was a little taller and curvier than me, her dark curls held back by a bright strip of material. Her sense of style was more arty and bohemian than I think I ever managed, even in my best Berkeley days. She didn't look her twenty-seven years. The studio was messier than I had envisaged mine but had the same wooden floor running through from the gallery and large windows letting in the California sunshine. I wondered if she knew how lucky she was to have such a place.

--

'My husband...bought a painting from the exhibition in L.A...' I found myself telling her a few minutes later. She had called to me as I covertly watched her sweeping broad arcs of paint onto a canvas, saying she would only be a minute, she just _had_ to finish the section or she might never get the right colour again. True to her word she appeared next to me a moment later, wiping the paint from her fingers before offering me her hand and introducing herself.  
'Sandy Cohen,' I continued. 'gigantic eyebrows...it's a sunset, the painting I mean.'

'Oh,' she responded after a moment's hesitation. 'I wondered who had that.'  
'It was a Christmas present for me. I'm Kirsten Cohen.'  


'It's nice to meet you Kirsten. So what brought you to the gallery.'  
'Curiosity,' I admitted. 'I wondered what else you painted...actually, I wondered what you were like.'  
She smiled. 'Fair enough.'  
'I painted a similar sunset once...'  
'You're an artist?'  
I sighed. I hated that question. I wasn't sure if saying I was was a lie or if saying I wasn't was a lie to myself.  
'...Not anymore.'  
'Oh. How come?'  
'I'm in real estate now.'  
'Isn't an artist something you always are...regardless of what job you do?'  
'Perhaps. I guess I just have a lot more labels in my life now that come before artist.'  
Wife. Mother. Daughter. Director. Career-woman. Newpsie.  
I wondered why I was telling her these things.  
'So you went to Berkeley?' she asked, breaking my train of thought and I realised she must have worked out who Sandy Cohen was. No doubt he'd been as chatty as ever that day, especially when he discovered Rae was a fellow alumni of his beloved Berkeley.  
'Yes. Rather a long time ago now.'

'Is that when you painted your sunset?'  
'Oh I've always painted sunsets. That one in particular though was freshman year...I think I was still a little high or drunk when I painted it,' I said, blushing. 'It was left half finished.'

'I was sort of angry when I did mine...it didn't wear off for a good few days. Men, you know.'  
I smiled congenially. 'I do indeed.'  


We had wandered into her studio as we talked so I could see more of her work and suddenly I was struck by one of the canvases.  
It was dark and abstract, a number of concentric ovals, some spirals, some like eggs with yolks, some empty, the white of the canvas visible. It's hard to describe. I don't think I can do it justice or tell you exactly what it showed and how it did so, how it made me feel or how I knew what it meant.  
I was silent for a moment, thinking. I knew she was watching me and wondered if I should ask her what was on my mind.

'Can I ask you a personal question?' I finally spoke up.

'..Sure.' I could have been mistaken but I thought I saw uncertainty flit across her face, there was something different flaring in her eyes as she looked at the painting.

'Have you...what...inspired this picture?'

She gave a half-laugh, her eyes crinkling at the edges. 'Most people wouldn't consider that a personal question.'

I smiled, knowing what she meant but convinced that the story behind this particular canvas was intensely personal.

Rae looked at me, then away, then at me again and I was almost certain. 'It's...about life and death...' she bit her lip and looked even younger. 'I um...don't know how you'll take it but...this is an abortion piece. Based on personal experience.'

'I know,' I said quietly, tears welling at the corners of my eyes. 'I knew when I saw it. It shows exactly what I feel.'  
I couldn't believe she had shared with me so easily. She could have easily left off that last sentence.  
I couldn't believe I had told her exactly why I knew. But what I said. It showed how I felt; the spirals, the emptiness...



Her mouth fell open a little. 'Really?'

I nodded, my eyes caught on the canvas. When I looked back at her I saw her eyes were glistening too.  
'It's okay,' I told her, the mothering instinct I'm never sure I have until it surfaces, kicking in despite the fact she wasn't really that much younger than me.  
'I know,' she said quietly. 'Do you?'  
'I'm getting there,' I said honestly, reaching out and touching the canvas softly. Silence descended and stretched out. I was vaguely aware of the shadows of the clouds in the San Francisco sky scudding across the studio floor. I wondered what time it was. I had a flight to catch at some point.  
'I should go,' I said at last. 'But thank you.' I wasn't sure if I meant it for the painting at home, for not being me in another life, the painting I had just touched or her reassurance.  
She was still stood staring at the canvas as I turned to leave.  
'Kirsten,' she called, looking round. 'Thank you.'  
I looked back and smiled.  
I wasn't the only one.

--

--

Please review even though I was bad and failed to update for ages! Thank you!

--


	15. Spring

Who said fate doesn't knock twice?

**Summary: **A very different abortion storyline.

**Disclaimer: **I never claimed they were mine in the first place.

--  
Wtf is wrong with and formatting. Okay it's always been a bit crap but now it's doubling up the first sentence of fics, breaking off sentences in the middle, putting random spaces between lines. Sort yourself out!  
And I must sort myself out too and try to update quicker! I apologise and give a threefold excuse...busy times, working 9-5 (what a way to make a living!) and being ill. The aim is to finish this story (only one more chapter and the epilogue left) in two weeks. Hope you enjoy this chapter. Sorry for any mistakes, it was mainly written in the early hours!  
--

Spring

I don't really remember leaving the gallery, returning to the hotel and taking a cab to the airport. I was in a daze for a good few hours which covered the airport, the plane journey and the trip home. It wasn't exactly a daze, more just confused thoughts deep in my head, but whatever it was I was jolted out of it the minute I opened the front door.  
Seth and Sandy were sat in the lounge, obviously waiting for me. The both rushed over and I was crushed for a moment beneath the combined weight of their hugs. Not that I was complaining. I felt very loved.  
Seth broke away first. He had let me ruffle his hair but kissing his cheek was too much when I'd only been away one night. Sandy shifted position, sliding his arms around me.  


'Fetch the take-out menus Seth,' he told our son. Seth knew it was a ploy to get him out of sight and earshot but he went anyway, not wanting to witness our reunion.  
Sandy smiled and edged closer, lifting a hand to caress my cheek.  
'You look tired.'  
'I'm alright,' I told him, closing my eyes and pressing my lips to his.  
'I missed you,' he mumbled through the kiss and I felt my heart swell a little bit. It still got me how he loved me, missed me when I was gone only a matter of hours really.

'I missed you too.'  
'How was the trip?'  
'Okay...good...'  
'Did you get the deal or whatever it was you wanted?'  
'Oh...uh...no.'  
He pulled back a little and looked at me. 'How come?'  
I shrugged not wanting to concoct a lie. 'It's not important right now,' I said, leaning back in towards him and he got the message.  
We kissed for a few minutes, still stood just inside the door. Eventually we heard Seth crashing about in the kitchen, obviously trying to get our attention, and broke apart. We smiled at each other and headed for the source of the commotion.  
An hour later we were sat at the table eating Chinese. Seth seemed upbeat, talking nineteen to the dozen, and my husband smiled at me, eyes more than a little lustful, over the rim of his wine glass.  
It was nice to be home.  
--



The lustful eyes were watching me again when I came out the shower, this time over the top of a a novel as he lay in bed. I settled myself beside him and he tried to pretend he hadn't been watching. All of thirty seconds later he put the book down on his bedside table and ran a finger up my arm, tugging at the strap of my vest top.  
'PJs huh?'

'Well it is bedtime.'  
'And does that always require pyjamas?'  
'Sandy...'  
'I missed you last night.' He mumbled, scooting closer.

'I missed you too honey.'

'You're just saying that.'

'Hey!'  
'I was just checking baby.'

'Checking what?'

'That you love me.'

I smiled and turned to drop a kiss on the lips that were now only inches from my face. Never one to miss an opportunity he caught my lips with his and my chin with his fingertips, lengthening the kiss.

'You know I love you,' I got out before our lips met again.

'I think I need a little reminder,' he pressed, hand slipping from my face, down my neck and shoulders, lingering at my breasts before disappearing under the sheets.

'Oh really?'

The hand paused at the edge of my pants.

'You don't want to?'



'I...'  
He fiddled with the ribbon tie. I wasn't sure why I was reluctant. Last night in the hotel room I'd been lonely; thoughts and worries fizzing round my head, I'd been unable to sleep. The double bed was big without Sandy, cold too. The mattress was hard, the sheets rough, the pillows too plump. Basically it just hadn't felt right without him. It had taken closing my eyes and imagining him there with me, his body warm against my back, his arms tight around me, breath, kisses and murmured I-love-yous, asleep or awake, my lullaby. And, yes, I'd missed him in other ways too.  
'Kir...' he whined.  
'Okay,' I relented. 'But one condition...'  
'Hmm,' he half answered, head buried in my neck, hands busily removing my pjs.  
'Sandy,' I tugged at his hair but the moment he looked up he was kissing me and we were both lost.  
I caught up with myself a few minutes later.  
'Sandy...wait,' I gasped as we writhed beneath the sheets.  
'Yes baby?' his voice was more breathless than mine. I guess it _had_ been a while.  
I wriggled out from under him a little, reaching for the drawer in the nightstand with outstretched arm, left hand scrabbling for something.  
'What're you doing?' he asked, the sex glaze receding from his eyes somewhat at the extended interruption.  
'Nothing...just...'I found what I was looking for and manoeuvred myself back under his warm body. I lifted myself up to kiss him before lying back, twirling the condom in its colourful wrapper between my fingers in his line of vision.  
'Huh?'  
I reached down between us, much as he had minutes ago and he stiffened.  


'What're you doing?'  
'Why d'you think?' I teased. 'Has it been that long?'  
'Long enough since we've used one of those...what's going on?'  
'Nothing.'  
'Kirsten...'  
'I just forgot to take my prescription with me so I had to take it late when I got back.'  
'Oh...so that means...?'  
'Extra precautions.'  
'You don't always.'  
'I do. I just don't forget often.'  
'You have lately.'  
'What's that supposed to mean?'  
'Well it's true.'  
'What is?'  
'You keep making me wear them lately.'  
'Don't be such a baby Sandy.'  
'I'm just making an observation.'  
'Well don't.' I spat.  
He drew back, hurt. 'Kirsten!'  
'What?' I'd drawn back too, pushing the condom under my pillow. It wasn't likely it would get used that night and certainly not because I would give in to his demands.  
'I'm just not allowed to talk about it am I?'

I wondered why were guys such twats about wearing condoms. It seriously was _not_ that bad. They didn't get periods, they didn't get period pain or bloatedness or PMS. They didn't get migraines or nausea from contraception. They didn't get pregnant.  
All they had to do was wear a little bit of latex for a while. How uncomfortable could it really be? How much did it really ruin the flow of sex, the sensations? Like they really gave a fuck after they'd come.  
'...It's definitely more than usual the last couple of months...'  
I realised Sandy was still talking.  
'What the hell are you on about?' I asked in a bored, derisory voice just to rile him. To his credit, the slow breath in and out through clenched teeth, sounded less exasperated than it could have been.  
'You wanting me to...us using condoms...'  
'It was one time.'  
'No it wasn't!'  
'Well I don't remember.'  
'There was mid-December...after we hadn't had sex for almost two weeks...and at Christmas and...'  
'I didn't forget then, I told you I changed prescriptions.'  
'What difference does that make?'  
'Do I have to get into this with you?'  
'I don't even remember the last time before that that you made me...'  
'I'm not making you do anything Sandy. I'm just being responsible.'  
'We're married. What's the worst that could happen?'  
'Sandy...' I sighed. 'Drop it, please.'  
'It's not like either of us has anything.'  
I couldn't resist a dig. I was pissed, the moment had been ruined and the conversation was making me very uncomfortable. 'Well, with your history...'  
'I don't Kirsten.'  
'I was being sarcastic,' I lied. 'How come you're allowed to be but I'm not?  
He wasn't listening, continuing with his train of thought and obliviously making everything worse.  
'Or you'd get pregnant and how likely is that?'  
I swallowed. 'More likely than you'd expect probably,' I said, injecting a false levity into my tone.  
'Well as consequences go it's not exactly major.'  
'What the hell? Not exactly major? Hello Sandy I'd be _pregnant_. As in with _child_. As in we'd have a _baby_!' The words were out of my mouth before I'd even thought about how they sounded.  
Crap.  
'Don't freak out. It wasn't like I was suggesting it.' He was looking at me funny and I stayed on the offensive so he wouldn't have chance to think.  
'You were suggesting we took the risk.'  
'I was just wondering why all of a sudden...'  
'I'm wondering why all of a sudden you're being such a pain about something so trivial.'  
'I'm a guy,' he said jovially. 'But seriously Kir, would it be such a bad thing?'  
I didn't answer.  
'I'll take that as a yes.'  
I closed my eyes and heard him sigh and settle into the bed. He'd always wanted more children and I knew somewhere inside the hankering was still there. Obviously.  
I heard the click of the light switch and when I opened my eyes again the room was in darkness.  
'Sandy I'm sorry.'  
'I'm kinda tired...let's just go to sleep.'  
The foil wrapper crackled beneath my pillow as I rolled over but the tears that followed were silent.

--

I still wasn't sleeping well and even being back in my own bed with Sandy's warm weight beside me didn't help as much as I had anticipated the previous night. The weeks where tears flooded my eyes even before I was fully awake had passed but I don't think I'll ever wake up without the thought of it. The fitful sleeping continued too, at least until I became so busy at work that I was too exhausted to dream, too tired to possibly wake through the night or I wouldn't have been able to function.  
I guess I should really thank for my dad for that.

I woke with a start about four thirty but whatever I had been dreaming disappeared from my head almost instantaneously. That was probably a good thing.  
I lay in the darkness for a little while before slipping out of bed. The warm cocoon of sleep had released me and I knew I wasn't getting back to sleep for a little while. A sudden urge appeared from somewhere and I padded over to the dresser and fumbled blindly for something hidden in the top drawer. There beneath my underwear was the set of pencils I had bought before Christmas, ostensibly for Seth, secretly for myself. I pulled on my robe and slipped out, the tin of pencils cool in my hand. After wandering the house for a while; there was a lot more of it to wander in than the days back in Berkeley, and checking on Seth, I found myself in Sandy's study. The big chair was so very comfortable and it held happy memories of more than a few trysts. The desk was pretty much clear other than a large desk pad, the wide white expanse all too tempting for an awakened artist with pencils in her itching fingers. Fingers that hadn't forgotten how to draw I discovered as the pad filled with sketches.  


I wasn't really thinking, at least not about drawing; my subconscious guiding the pencils, shifting from one sort to another, now soft, now harder, selecting, shading, shadowing, scratching, smudging, scribbling, trailing, tracing. The images washed in waves from my head to my arm to my pencil and flooded the paper. I suddenly noticed the room was lighter but the page dark; covered with drawings. Drawings of all the thoughts in my head that I tried to pretend weren't there.  
Babies, children, tiny tadpoles, swollen stomachs. Dark shadows, black holes, black expanses, in fact, where I had scribbled hard, almost tearing the paper. The spirals from Rae's painting wove their way between them all and tears fell from the top of the sheet. I had no idea I could still draw or that it would be so emotive, my feelings raw on the paper. It caught me by surprise.  
Sandy appearing at the doorway did too.

'There you are,' he said, the slight note of relief just evident in his voice. 'You still having trouble sleeping?'

I'm sure when I looked up my face was pure deer-in-the-headlights. I tore at the sheet of paper, tugging it from the rest of the pad in such haste I'm surprised I didn't rip it. Not that it mattered as I then crumpled it into the ball and dropped it in the trash can under the desk before he had crossed the room. He couldn't possibly see it. I'd have to remember to take it out the bin again later, just in case he was curious.

I avoided answering the question, instead asking what time it was.  
'Going on for six. You coming back to bed?'

'You going surfing?'  
He was beside me by then and smiled down at me, reaching out to stroke my hair.  
'Not today.'  
I smiled. My head felt delightfully clear, as though most of my black thoughts were now in the trash can too.

'You alright?'

'Yes,' I told him and meant it. Rae's painting glowed at the edge of my vision and I just couldn't keep another secret from the man I loved. 'I have a confession to make though...'

He looked immediately concerned, leaning against his desk and reaching for my hand.  
'What is it baby?'

I swallowed at his choice of words but didn't hesitate.  
'I didn't have a business meeting.'  
'What?'

'I didn't go to San Francisco for a meeting.'  
Sandy's face was blank.  
'I don't understand.'  
'I'm sorry. I didn't want to lie to you...'  
'What did you do? Why did you go? What's going on? Is something wrong? Are you...? Is there...someone...?' He stuttered out the questions, choking over the last.

'No...nothing like that. God Sandy. You really think I could...?'

He looked sheepish, the fear that had sparked in his blue eyes melting away.  
'No..._no_. It's just things have been...weird lately.'  
'I'm sorry.'

'Why'd you go?'

'I...went to see Rae F. McNeil.'  
'Who?'  
I looked up at the painting. 'She painted that.'  


'Oh...'  
'I just...I wanted to meet her. See if she was like me.'

'Why?'

'She sounded so similar...she painted that sunset that reminds both of us of the one I did...she went to Berkeley, got the little gallery I always wanted...'

'You were jealous?'

It frustrated me that he didn't get it, it wasn't just jealousy, but I didn't show it.

'Yes and no. I just wondered if she was me in another universe or something silly like that and what my life might have been like...'

'And what did you find out?'

'Things happen. It doesn't matter where you are, what you're doing, who you are really. There's always going to be destiny.'  
'That's uh...very...deep honey.'

'Maybe.'

'Why didn't you tell me?'

I shrugged.

'You were curious. It makes sense to me.'

'I guess I thought you'd find it weird...was scared you'd think it silly.'

'You know I don't judge you. Me of all people.'

'It was just...something I wanted to do.

'I wish you'd tell me these things. I could have come with you...or made it a family trip.'

'I wanted to go alone.'  
'Oh.'  
'See...you wouldn't have liked that.'

He didn't reply, knowing he would have made a fuss.



'I'm sorry I lied to you though. I know I shouldn't have and I'm sorry. It wasn't fair, it isn't what I want our relationship to be like.'  
I didn't say it wasn't what our relationship was actually like. There were other lies I couldn't admit to.  
The tears prickled.

He sighed and I knew he was upset. 'You told me now. That's the important thing,' he said, as though he was trying to convince himself. 'But please Kirsten, when are you gonna realise you really can tell me anything? How long have we been together? You don't have to lie to protect me or to protect yourself. I love you.'  
'I know. It was stupid.'

He pulled me up to hug me close and I stifled a yawn, suddenly tired.

'Shall we head back to bed?'  
'Okay.' At least I'd come clean about something, even if he didn't really understand.

'What were you doing in the study?' he asked as we walked back to our bedroom together, his arm nestled around my waist, mine around his.  
'Just doodling.'

'I don't know if what you do can really be called doodling. My terrible little stick men, random shapes and dogs that look more like chickens are doodling. You actually draw stuff.'

'You're sweet,' I told him and he chuckled, pulling me into bed, up against his chest and insisting we sleep for another hour or so. I wondered if he'd rather be surfing...or something else...but I was tired and he was so warm and comforting after sitting still sketching my guilt, fear and regret for over an hour.

--  
Take pity on a sick writer, even if her update schedule leaves a lot to be desired, and review! Thank you. She will update soon...the next chapter is all ready!



--


	16. Summer

Who said fate doesn't knock twice?

**Summary: **A very different abortion storyline.

**Disclaimer: **I ate it.

---

I was frantically writing the last chapter and suddenly it was nearly 6000 words long so I figured I may as well split it into two, just to keep the chapter size average. Not because I'm mean or anything. Penultimate chapter here we go. I hope you enjoy.

---

Summer

When I woke again it was daylight proper and Sandy was lying watching me. His expression wasn't any different from usual and the relief that he wasn't angry with me made me want to reward him.

'Hey,' I said softly.

'Hey.' His voice rumbled in his chest and I smiled. He was so sexy.  
We were kissing, heatedly, when the phone rang. I wanted to leave it. I really did. But I'm just not that type of person. I can't bear to leave a phone ringing or a glass unwashed.

I reached from my position straddling Sandy to grab the handset. There was really only one person who called that early and I knew if I didn't pick up he would just keep on trying.

'Hello?'

'Kiki!' My father's voice was far too bright and brisk for the time of day but what he barked down the line, the words made me take notice.  
He was going away. For weeks. He had a series of business meetings across the US, a conference in Washington, something in London, people to see in Europe and a possible vacation.  
Caleb Nichol was actually considering a vacation. He'd be gone four months minimum, potentially more if he actually did take a proper holiday.

And I was to be acting CEO while he was gone. As in charge of the entire company not just managing a division. The whole damn thing.  
I was in shock.

Oh and did I mention he was leaving in twenty minutes?

---

'What's wrong?' Sandy asked as, dazed, I replaced the phone in its cradle.  
'My dad's going away...'  
'My prayers have been answered!'  
I shot him a 'look'.  
'He's left me in charge.'  
'Really?'

'I know.' My dad never left me in charge, even when he went on two-day business trips. There was always a team of us left to manage things. I wondered why he suddenly trusted me with his beloved Newport Group. Had all my handwork finally paid off? Was he finally recognising that I was bloody good at my job? I liked to think so even if I couldn't be sure. It felt good to be given the responsibility. My dad trusted me with his most prized possession. His business.

I smiled goofily, lightheaded in disbelief.

'He left me in _charge_ Sandy!'

'That's great baby.' His sober voice was a contrast to my own and it brought me up short.

'What's wrong?'

'Nothing. I'm proud of you.'

'You don't sound it.'

He sighed and ducked his head. 'I am...it's just...you're gonna be so busy. I was hoping we could have more time together, not less.'  
'Oh honey...' My mood dropped. 'I...'  
'It's okay. I know how much it means to you.'

I nodded and approached him slowly. 'I'm sorry.'  
'Don't apologise,' he said quietly and I wrapped my arms around him.

'I love you, so much...'  
'And I love you.'  
I smiled and looked up at him, relieved when he smiled back, properly, eyes warm. We stood holding each other for a while until I pulled back knowing me disappointing him and leaving our 'moments' unfulfilled was about to begin.

'I better go get ready...the boss can't be late.'  
'I thought being late was one of the perks of _being_ the boss!'

'Not this boss,' I told him and he laughed, kissing my cheek and releasing me.

He went to the kitchen to put the coffee on and schmear bagels while I showered and got dressed. Our paths crossed first as I went to eat and see Seth and he headed for our room to wash away the salt from his morning surfing session, and again when we left the house. Sandy paused by my car, kissing me softly before I climbed in and wishing me luck he said I didn't need. I hoped I wouldn't. I hoped too that all our mornings weren't going to be that hectic from now on. Mornings had been our time once upon a time.

Back in college we'd been lucky enough to not have many early classes and I had so many with my memories of lazy mornings in bed with my boyfriend, the hours lying talking, moaning about our hangovers and, of course, having amazing sex.

I remembered the nights we'd drive out of Berkeley and park somewhere on a headland or hillside for the night, probably highly illegally, going to bed early so we could wake up and watch the sunrise sat on the back steps of the mailtruck.

There were countless mornings when one of us would lie awake, watching the other, until they woke up. I always split my time between watching the man between me and staring in awe at the ring or rings on my finger. Whether it was the plastic ring he gave me first, the diamond engagement ring we could hardly afford when he replaced it, that ring and its platinum mate or the eternity set, sometimes I still couldn't really believe they were there.

When I was pregnant with Seth I didn't sleep well at all, fears and insecurities playing on my mind so I was always up early. Sandy would find me wandering about our Berkeley house, admiring the rooms of our very own home even if they were mostly empty and in need of more than a few licks of paint. Sometimes he'd catch up with me in the kitchen and we'd sit at the table as dawn broke, hands wrapped round steaming mugs of coffee. We might have been in California but it was Northern California and it got cold. Heating was a luxury and after the coffee we'd warm up in other ways!

Other times I'd be stood at the doorway to what would become Seth's room, trying to comprehend the knowledge that in a few short months or weeks there would be a baby in that cot, at baby that was growing inside me right at that moment. A baby that belonged to me and Sandy. Our child. I didn't go into his room much before he was born, I was that nervous. Sandy never pushed it. We decorated as best we could and organised but other than that I always just looked from the door, still not believing that it was the room of my child. He would stand with me for a while, his low voice murmuring reassurances before reaching for my hand and drawing me back to our room and back to bed.

We usually ended up having sex then as well.

After Seth was born I did the same thing, standing at the doorway in disbelief and terror that the real live baby finally sleeping only feet away was really mine. Sometimes I watched him and felt so crazily in love. Other times I cried because I was frightened I hated him. Mostly I was in awe and terrified at the same time.  
Sandy would wrap his arms around me, let me cry myself out on his pyjama shirt, whisper reassurances and lead me to bed. Those times he'd simply hold me until I dropped off, the happier moments came a little later. Time passing and Seth getting older let us regain the other sort of moments, particularly when he started school. Homeroom was at eight so whoever took him would rush home to make them most of the peace before work began for us at nine.  
Oh the days where work didn't begin till nine.

In Newport Sandy found a new hobby. He'd only been able to surf a couple of times in Berkeley but had fallen in love with the sport and the perfect waves in Southern California were too much to resist. It became a regular passion and I couldn't begrudge him that. He needed _something_ in Newport that he liked other than me and Seth. The bed beside me was empty often these days but it made the days he skipped surfing even better. Today might have been one of those days if it hadn't been for my dad and his spectacularly bad timing. Sandy swears he has ESP or something. He calls at the most in-opportune moments _all_ the time. It looked like mornings would be off the agenda for a while as I got into the swing of being in charge. Moments would have to do. I hoped it would be enough to keep us working. As much as I hid things from him. I needed him. I still hurt inside and I needed him to lessen the pain, even if he had no idea he was even doing it.

---

It got easier. As things do. Everyday life squeezes in and leaves less and less time for thinking and crying. Pain dulls and memories lose their sharpness. The nightmares I staved off with a little cognac and a lot of paperwork reared their ugly heads every now and then but I'd known worse in those first few days. I was okay. Sandy and I were muddling through. I was busy. Far busier than he would like but he tried not to complain or confront me too much. I spoke to him on the phone more than I saw him sometimes and it wasn't what I wanted but I didn't have a choice. I needed to be occupied and I needed to run the business perfectly. I guess the little girl inside of me still needed to impress her father, was hoping he would notice and appreciate her efforts, praise her. It's not intentional and it's not rational, knowing his track record, but old habits are the hardest to break, even when you know it hurts your husband because he thinks it means his love isn't enough. Things were a little distant between us but it was just with being apart so much and me keeping my feelings at arm's length. It wasn't ever awkward; you can't have been married to someone eighteen years and not have a fallback position, a routine and we did pretty good at falling into routine those couple of months. It wasn't our 'groove' as Sandy calls it. It wasn't bona fide Sandy and Kirsten Cohen but it wasn't bad. It wasn't superficial, not really. We weren't just going through the motions, that came the following summer when I thought I'd lost all three of my children, not just one. We loved each other and that still underpinned everything we did whether there were issues to deal with or not. It meant we'd be alright. I guess I'd always known that really.  
---

Spring gave way to summer and my thoughts turned to what would have been rather than what I had done. I'm not sure which is worse. I tried to focus on how lucky I was not to be carrying a baby in the stifling weather. I'd been there with Seth and the California summer was hell. I thought about all the reasons why I didn't want another baby, all the things I was escaping, to block out the fact my due date was approaching. If I hadn't done what I did those dreams of newborns would have come true very soon.

The days rushed passed, the perfect California weather blurring them together until the year was already almost half way gone. I counted down silently, secretly. No excitement but also no anxiety, no pain, nothing. I cut work short that Friday, too distracted by my imagination to think straight and with no Dad in the office to guilt me into staying. I was in a foul mood and couldn't justify it. I didn't want that baby. Why was I being even the slightest bit wistful over the day of its potential birth? I picked up take-out on my way home, reminding myself how much of a failure of a mother I was without failing another child. At home I called to Seth that dinner was ready and to come help, he didn't. He skulked in five minutes later and we ate in little more than silence. Sandy was delayed in Chino, or at least that's as much as I gleaned from the hurried, crackly message he'd left earlier that afternoon. I was clearing up by the time Sandy slunk in, reminiscent of his son, and dropped his bombshell.

I don't know why I was so angry, not completely. I have my theories. Obviously bringing Ryan home was crazy but I should know Sandy by now, trust his judgement, but I couldn't help being a little apprehensive. He loves to dive into things headfirst without thinking, his heart ruling his head, but I can't really question that. It's how we made it this far. If he'd taken time to think all those years ago I probably wouldn't be Kirsten Cohen.

Maybe I was angry because it meant I couldn't simply curl up with a glass of wine and block out thoughts of where I might have been right then. I couldn't sit and get lost in my old favourite; Breakfast at Tiffany's, without interruption. I couldn't go into the shower and cry. I couldn't lie awake wondering once again if I'd done the right thing. I wouldn't be dreaming of tiny little breaths from a bassinet in the corner of our room that night. No, I'd be busy making arrangements for this criminal boy, double-checking the locks on the doors and lying awake, worrying.  
I finished showing Sandy the sharp side of my tongue and waltzed off to find bedding and suchlike for the impromptu house guest with a biting retort. I was angry too that he thought I was that shallow. That the whole reason I was so negative was because I was a bitch. I just had too much to think about right then.

He didn't look like a bad kid; his eyes didn't appear to be casing the house, rather they were a frightened, lost-looking blue beneath their guard. I knew eyes like that; my own, the façade I put up every morning in front of the mirror.

Oh what did I know? The boy was a felon I remember thinking.

I guess I was angry because I didn't want to deal with anything or anyone other than myself that night. I wanted to indulge in my grief and guilt in peace. I certainly didn't want someone else's child in my house seven months after I'd rejected one of my own.

---

Sandy brought home Ryan on what would have been my due date. He brought home a strange boy the same night we could have had a new member of the family. I wasn't to know Ryan would be a new member too. I think now how lucky I am that I made that choice. Had I not, it's unlikely Ryan would have come to us. I would have been nine months pregnant or the baby may have come already. There is no way Sandy would have left me heavily pregnant or with a newborn baby. He probably would have been at home. Someone else would have gone to Chino and met Ryan, someone without Sandy's instincts, insight and philanthropy. Even if he had he been at work he might have been distracted, expecting my call. He might have been less perceptive. He would have thought twice about bringing a strange boy home on that night of all nights, a night when we could have been off to the hospital at any moment. No, we would probably have never met Ryan. Ryan would never have met us. And we would all have been poorer for it. I wasn't meant to have that baby. I was meant to have Ryan. And I'd do it again.

---  
Thanks for the fabulous reviews last chapter. Please delight me again!

---


	17. Epilogue

Who said fate doesn't knock twice?

**Summary: **A very different abortion storyline.

**Disclaimer: **If Josh Schwartz is secretly a 20 year old girl from England then sure, I own the O.C.

---

Cutting it fine as always! Here is the final instalment of this fic. I hope you've enjoyed it. I've struggled a little with some parts of this fic as a whole so I think whatever I write next I really want to have mainly written before I post I'm afraid but don't give up on me, I shall return!

---

Epilogue

Theresa obviously thinks the abortion I'm alluding to is years ago, most likely when I was around her age. She has no idea it was barely eighteen months ago. Suddenly it is all back in my head and I wonder why I'm pushing her to make decisions that make absolutely no sense on paper when I don't regret my decision. It's not as though I'm trying to make my baby live vicariously through hers, I know better than that and am far past it.

So why am I advising towards something that could be disastrous for my son? The son I am so lucky to have.  
I don't know.

I guess it's because Theresa doesn't already have a child. She doesn't have a bleeding heart PD as a husband who is going to bring a miracle home in nine months time. And as much as I love Ryan and I don't regret the decision I made, it wasn't easy. It hurt. More than I could ever have understood before I did it. There were repercussions, pain, tears, guilt for months; I think there will be for years really. These days I'm good. I'm happy, and when I say it I mean it. Dealing with my emotions and Ryan's arrival at the same time was a challenge but probably it was what I needed. Something, someone, else to focus on. I've always enjoyed a challenge. It put things in perspective and helped me once I began to accept Ryan as my son. To want him to be my son. To wish he had always be mine. To love him like a son. And somewhere along the line he became just that. The anniversary of that day in December was hard too, and lately my mind has drifted to what might have been. The baby that would have been a year old. But I don't usually. I know these dates are always going to jump out of the calendar. Those mornings it will be that little bit harder to get out of bed. There will be tears but not regret. I have so much else in my life. What else does Theresa have? I just want her to think a little longer before she hurts herself that bad, before she loses months of her life to the pain and guilt and helplessness. In her case it might not be worth it.

I was lucky. Fate knocked twice for me.

Or did it?

Two weeks before my fortieth birthday I missed a period. I gave it a week but still nothing. I took a nap one afternoon and slept until dinner. I thought back over the last month and it dawned on me how little I'd done lately, how tired and lethargic I'd felt. I thought a good sleep would help, that I was simply getting old but instead, after sleeping fourteen hours straight one night I felt weaker than ever. And then the nausea started and I twigged.  
I wasn't certain but I didn't want to think of the alternative. My mom was in her early forties when they found the cancer that took her from us. There was no damn way I was leaving my family again.

So at that point, if there had to be something wrong, pregnancy was the preferable option. And yes, it still counted as something being 'wrong'. Although I didn't feel the utter horror I had four years before, I was still scared of the possibility. Just not as scared of the other possible explanation. I was trapped between my biggest fear and one of my worst nightmares. A baby I knew in the end I could handle, I would have to; I was nowhere near thinking of the alternative this time around. Just as I couldn't stand to entertain the thought of anything other than pregnancy.  
Pregnancy or nothing.  
But other black thoughts crept into my head too.  
I knew it was better to think positive but it wasn't that easy. The fear had already gripped me, a cold cage around my chest.  
Sandy's smile, the boys' chatter made me panic, thinking of how those things could so easily disappear if something was wrong.  
I knew too that I was jumping to conclusions; it could be nothing but I was still scared. Too scared at first to call and arrange to see the doctor, even though I knew that could be the worst thing to do.

If it was something.  
I wasted another two days plucking up the courage but even then it was hard to find a quiet moment when no one was around to overhear. Some gory movie at the IMAX finally got them all out the house at once and gave me the perfect excuse to stay in. Sandy was convinced I was quiet and a little melancholy because of the milestone birthday I was about to reach.  
I _knew_ forty wasn't old. I did. I knew it perfectly well in my head but it still sounded old somehow. It wasn't that it was actually old, just that I couldn't really believe that I was almost that age. My thirties had stretched out in comparison to my twenties which had flown by in a rush of love and excitement to begin with and a wash of fear and grief and regret later on. The Newport years were slow at first, the usual gossip and drama in its interminable cycle but nothing that really affected us. I was preoccupied by grief, my lonely son, work, keeping my sex life interesting and the consequences of that so it wasn't until Ryan came that things began to move faster. A whirlwind of new experiences, dramas, moments and memories filled my life but somehow the arrival of my birthday caught me unawares.

Yes I was apprehensive about my birthday but it was of course the fear of the unknown, the answer to the question marks over the way I had been feeling the past few weeks that had me preoccupied.

Just as a day I didn't like to think about, the wait for the appointment was too long, the wait for the test results too long and the doctor took. Far. Too. Long. Forming the words I had originally wanted to hear simply as an alternative to worse but was beginning to secretly hope for.

It was still a shock though. To actually hear the words out loud. To be told in no uncertain terms that there was a baby growing inside me. That I was a mother again, Sandy was a father, Seth and Ryan had a sibling. I was pregnant.  
I was _pregnant_.

Newport slid past the tinted windows in perfect technicolour as I drove home on autopilot. The house was mercifully empty and I floated inside, dazed. My swirling thoughts seemed audible in the heavy silent

I was pregnant.  
And I was forty.

I leant back against the door for a moment, taking a breath and trying to believe it as the knowledge sank in.

I felt fuzzy, wobbly on my legs, my head the way it felt when I was a child and tried to comprehend the universe.  
There was no way I could deal with Julie Cooper-Nichol at that point. A tiny part of me felt guilty at blowing her off but in truth I didn't care. I barely heard what she was saying, my thoughts were chattering together, loudly.

Forty and pregnant. The Newpsies were gonna have a field day.

I was forty. Forty with all the little insecurities I denied. The shallow thoughts of wrinkles and the like, the unfounded fear that Sandy could stray, how if I was forty my sons were almost all grown up too, the ticking of the biological clock I didn't know I had.

I guess that was what was different this time. Although it had only been four years ago I did feel older at forty. There probably wouldn't be another chance. And that I couldn't quite swallow. Despite the fact I had never, ever wanted more children. Despite the fact I had Ryan and Seth.

I was a different person.  
I wasn't the scared barely woman struggling to juggle midterms and morning sickness, giving birth just out of college to a tiny baby boy my degree had no way prepared me for!

I wasn't the self-sufficient career woman, secretly scared and selfish.

I was Kirsten Cohen. Sandy's wife.

Mrs Cohen. Seth and Ryan's mom.  
Kirsten. Alcoholic.

I had been through so much in the past few years, dealt with so much, learnt so much and of course it had changed me. I was stronger now and in a very different way to the way I had been before. I had dealt with more losses and grief, with revelations, with heartbreak and jealousy, with situations out of my control and far beyond my depth, with my own demons and I had learnt to rely a little more on other people.  
I knew better than to keep things to myself.  
(Except one thing.)  
That's why I was anxious for Sandy to come home before the damn party I knew he couldn't resist organising. On the one hand I was flattered, on the other he knew how little I wanted a fuss making of my fortieth.

I wanted to tell him. No, I needed to tell him.  
I needed to share with him, to talk, to not let my excitement fade or my insecurities surface. I needed to know his feelings, see his reactions, be reassured and comforted. To be told I wasn't crazy to be about to do what we were.  
To start all over again.  
Not that there was an alternative.

And part of me still wanted that little girl.

---

Sandy's reaction was more than I could have hoped for and I struggled to stem the happy tears that my hormones sent to my eyes. The delight radiating from him was almost tangible, the wonder and delight something I could feel in his soft touches throughout the evening, his whispers as we danced.  
We giggled guiltily as we made love that night. Thinking how one of our recent trysts had been the beginning of our third Cohen.  
(Fourth.)

It would be a lie to say I didn't think of it. When I came down from my high and Sandy snuggled sleepily against me I was far from joining him in slumber. As much as I had made peace with my decision there was still the little voice inside.  
Why this one?  
Why this time?

This time is different. I told it.  
This time I'm different.

Sandy's reaction to the news let me know I was right to have never told my secret or to have discussed with him before it was made. There was certainly no way I could share it now.

I couldn't even imagine how the conversation would go, thinking back to the closest we'd ever come to ever having it.

---

'You left these in my study.'  
I looked up from my book (the one with the wine stains), to see Sandy holding out the tin of pencils I had been sketching with a few days earlier.  
'Oh...thank you.' I took the tin and placed it on the bedside table, expecting him to head for the closet and get ready for bed. It was late after all; he'd been up going over case files for a hearing the following day for what felt like hours. But he didn't. He lingered by the bed longer than usual before suddenly perching beside my legs.  
'What's up?' I asked, worried when he dropped his head.  
'I don't want you to get mad...'  
'Why? What's happened?'  
'Nothing...not really...just you might mind...'  
'Mind what?'

'Well I was working in the study on that case I have tomorrow...'  
'I know that honey.'  
'And I suddenly noticed the desk pad was indented in places.'  
Oh shit, I thought.

'And I remembered you'd been drawing the other morning.'  
Double shit.

'...'  
I didn't know what to say. I figured I may as well let him spell it out, hear exactly what kind of trouble I was in.  
'I couldn't resist...you know how I loved to see your sketches and I didn't often and it's been so long. I was curious.'

'What exactly did you do?'  
Maybe he just...rubbed his pencil over the page to get an imprint.  
I knew I was clutching at straws.

'I um...looked at the page you threw away.'

'_You took it out the trash?_'  
'Uh...yeah.' He ducked his head.  
'Sandy!'

I wasn't surprised but I was horrified. What on earth had he thought?

'I was intrigued.'  
'That's not an excuse. You know there's a reason I never showed you everything I drew...it's private.'  
'I know...'

'Then you shouldn't have done it!'

'I wondered what had suddenly made you want to draw.'  
'You could have just asked me.'  
'You don't talk to me!'

'That's not fair.'  
'Perhaps, but it's true.'  
'Sandy...don't start this...'  
He put a hand on my leg through the bed clothes, rubbing softly up and down. 'I'm not...I'm sorry. I just...I was surprised by your drawings.'  
I bet. I thought. Not exactly sunsets were they.

'What did you think?'  
'That they seemed dark...melancholy, upset...I'm worried you drew the things you're not telling me.'  
'I'm not depressed Sandy.'  
'I didn't say...'  
'I told you I went to visit Rae McNeil remember?'  
'What has she got to do with this?'

'I was sketching things I remembered from her paintings,' I told him, stretching the truth a little. 'She um...went through something lately.

'She had a pregnancy scare?'

The _you_ lurked beneath the 'she'.

Guess he'd noticed the shapes on the paper.

'Something like that.'

'Okay,' he said quietly after a pause and leant in to kiss me. Another pause. 'I guess I should get ready for bed.

It was the closest we'd come and it hadn't been anywhere near. I couldn't bear to hurt him. To reveal the blackness inside me and hurt myself. He would be so angry, so hurt. Angry and confused, upset, angry, bitter. Unable to understand, unable to forgive, angry. Unable to look at me. Unable to love me the way he had.

So I never told and I never will.  
I love him too much.

---

Whoever said fate doesn't knock twice was so very wrong. It has knocked so many times for me.

Sandy.

Seth.

It knocked too that day the year before Ryan arrived; I just didn't open the door. And that's okay. There are other doors I would never have opened if I hadn't left that one shut.

Ryan.

Sophie.

---  
And that's it. Hope this wrapped things up nicely for you.  
I have several things on the go: 2 non-fanfics, a Kelly fic, a handful of one-shots and of course a plethora of fics in various stages so although it may be a while I certainly won't be disappearing. Thanks for all your comments and reviews. Keep in touch and let me know what kind of things you'd like to read most. No doubt I have a suitable fic somewhere and you should convince me to get it finished!  
---


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